Little Red Prince
by MoeMoeWordWord
Summary: Running from a group of bandits, Stiles finds himself injured and on the land of none other than the Shifter Derek Hale. But what is a Shifter? Is this Derek a friend or foe? What about the secret Stiles himself is keeping? What will become of the odd pair in this tale set in a fantasy world?
1. Chapter 1

Little Red Prince

"After him men! Don't let him get away!" Yelled the gruff voice of the bandit leader, Turow. The man was large and his shoulders easily as wide as a horses. He and his men—about ten of them—were running as quickly as they could through the thick brush of the Triton forest. The forest lay as a border between the Beacon Kingdom and the Animas Kingdom. Usually the forest and other borders were patrolled by guardsmen from each kingdom. Many traders came through the forest to both kingdoms respectfully, so it was important that the paths be safe to traverse.

However, at this moment, bandits were running after some prey. They had happened upon the boy and his travelling party. Or rather, they had caused the party to have some troubles. One of the bandits had knocked one of the wheels from the carriage straight off. As the party stopped to assess the damage and try to repair it, the bandits struck. They swept in like a plague and looted the trunks that had been tied to the top of the carriage and held the riders captive. Unfortunately for the bandits, the travelling party had been a small one from the Beacon Kingdom. There were no women dressed in lavish dresses and draped in golden jewelry. There were only three men in drab, travelling cloaks. But there had been one good thing about this robbery.

"Hey boss! I think I might have found something!" called one of the bandits. He was hunched over, his long greasy black hair falling over his scarred face. The man's hands were inside of a trunk, rummaging around past the silks and cloths.

"What is it Walcune?" Turow replied, making his way with heavy footsteps to the man.

The smaller man, Walcune, held up something that glittered gold in the sunlight breaking through the trees, "Ain't this the royal seal of the family in charge of Beacon right now?"

Turow grabbed the spherical object from Walcune and inspected it, turning it this way and that in his hands. A wicked grin spread over his face.

"Well, I'll be," he muttered to himself. Turow turned to his men, "We caught ourselves a big one today boys!" His grin widened, "One of these 'ere lads is a member of the royal family. That means we can catch a hefty price for 'is 'ead!"

The sound of a sword sliding against a sheath rang through the damp forest air. Turow pointed the end of his broadsword at the man closest to him. The man shrank away timidly, turning his face from Turow.

"Now," Turow growled, "Which one of yous is worth me some gold?" Turow moved his sword to point at each member of the travelling party. They each reacted in the same manner—trying to move as far away from the sharpness of Turow's blade as possible. All, except one that is.

"Oh?" Turow said, a curious tone adding to his voice, "What's this? Ain't you afraid of me boy?"

The male under the cloak chuckled slightly, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak, "I've been taught not to fear animals—especially stupid ones."

Turow's face twisted in to an angry snarl, "Whaddya say, you brat?" The larger man used the end of his sword to pull back the boy's cloak. The boy—no older than 16—looked up at Turow with steady eyes that were the colour of the richest chocolate. His skin was fair, with a bit of a tan to it, perhaps from being outside. But the smoothness of the skin gave away his age. His dark hair had been cropped short as if to keep him from drawing attention to himself.

"What do we have 'ere," Turow murmured. His eyes twinkled viciously, "A pretty boy, I see. We could get a 'igh price from you alone. Foreign slave traders are always asking for the pretty young ones, ripe for breaking. What do you say boy?" Turow asked, trailing his sword along the fabric of the boy's cloak. He used his sword to open the cloak and show the slim body the boy had, "Do you want to be a rich man's pet?"

The boy's lip curled up dangerously, "Filthy pig," he growled before spitting in Turow's face. Turow let out a rippling roar of a yell before stumbling back a step.

"You little—!" Anger clouded Turow's eyes as he regained his footing. He readied his sword in his hands as he glared at the boy, "You'll pay for that, little worm!" Turow charged forward, his sword held steadfastly in front of him. The boy darted sideways, rolling across the ground, just as Turow struck. Turow's sword stuck in to the thick trunk that the boy had been sitting against just moments before.

One of the men that had been travelling with them jumped up then and threw himself against Turow.

"Run now!" The man yelled at the boy. With only a bit of hesitation, the boy scrambled to his feet and ran. A yell ripped itself from Turow's throat as the burly man threw the smaller man from him. The thin man hit the tree with a sickening thud of his head.

"You'll get what's coming to ya soon enough!" Turow spat in the direction of the man who now slumped lifelessly against the tree trunk. Turow snarled menacingly, tearing his sword from its confines within the tree. He thrust it to point in the direction that the boy had run in.

"Don't just stand there with your mouths open like seals! Get 'im!" Turow commanded. His men reacted quickly, running in to the brush after the boy. Turow then turned to look at the two men who remained of the party.

"I 'ope you didn't think you had a chance of survival after that little stunt," Turow growled, positioning his body to tower over the men. Fear widened the eyes of the second man.

"Please, please have mercy," the man groveled.

"Mercy?" Turow asked, "I've never 'eard of the word," With that, Turow raised his sword and brought it down swiftly over the men. He had long since mastered the art of cutting through bone and the sinew of muscle. He didn't even need to swing twice anymore. Wearing a satisfied grin, Turow walked away from what remained of the two men. He pushed aside a stray branch before going in to the forest to join his men in the chase—in the hunt.

The boy ran as quickly as his feet could carry him. He wasn't used to the rough terrain of the forest, but he adapted as well as he could. His cloak kept getting caught on stray branches and bushes full of brambles. He only faltered in his step for a second before throwing the piece of fabric away from him. By removing the dull brown cloak, he revealed the bright scarlet clothing underneath. Only looking back for a moment to see if his pursuers were on his tail, the boy returned to running.

His breath was coming in quick pants despite his constant physical training. He could hold his own in a swordfight, but his stamina for foot chases seemed to be lacking something fierce. He felt the fire beginning in his legs. How much longer could he keep this pace up? Even as he thought that, he could feel himself slowing. He couldn't do this much longer.

"Keep going lads!" Turow shouted from somewhere much closer than comfortable, "These 'ere are our woods! He can't escape from us 'ere!"

The boy's heart started to beat even faster than it was already thumping in his chest. Turow was correct; the boy didn't have even an inkling of where he was going. He steeled himself with a quick shake and continued running. Soon enough he would have to run across something or someone that could be able to help him. If only he had his sword, the boy thought. He had hidden it on the coach under one of the benches in a hidden compartment. No use complaining now, he chastised himself.

He could hear the gang of bandits catching up to him. Any moment now, they would be upon him. Frantically, the boy looked around. The branches of the trees were all too high to jump to so he couldn't climb a tree. The brush wasn't thick enough to hide in and the bandits would probably be able to track him easily. Like Turow had said, the bandits could easily tell the difference between tracks made from a deer from tracks made by a panicking teenage boy. The boy kept running, trying to focus his last remaining energies on the effort. What was that up ahead? It was a fence! Maybe there was someone there to help him! He ran up to the fence but couldn't see any form of gate. He ran to the left for a bit and then to the right once more.

"Hello?" He called, "Is anyone there?" But he received no answer. The sounds of branches breaking made the boy turn around. He found himself face to face with Turow and his gang of bandits.

Turow smirked maliciously at the boy, "What's wrong? Run out of steam?" He asked, a gruff laugh escaping from him. The chuckle spread across his men and the boy looked at each one anxiously. They circled around him, effectively cutting off any chance of his escape. He heard the sound of a bow being tightened. He turned to see the man from earlier, Walcune, with an arrow pointed threateningly at the boy.

"We don't want no trouble," Walcune mumbled, his eyes telling a different story. The boy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

"Now," growled Turow, "Come with us, all nice and quiet like, and we won't 'ave to 'urt yous none."

The boy lowered his head. What could he do? This was such a hopeless situation. He swayed slightly where he stood. His hands touched the cool wood of the fence he was backed up against. A spark flashed across his gaze. He took a few steps forwards, towards the bandits.

"That's a good boy," Turow hummed softly. He was going to get a mighty good sum of gold for this one! He reached out his hand for the boy. But at that moment the boy looked up and smirked at Turow. The boy turned and ran at the fence.

"Stop 'im!" Turow roared, "He's trying to escape!" The boy vaulted himself over the fence just as he heard the harsh snap of an arrow being released from a taut bowstring. It was only a split second later that he felt a searing pain in his upper right thigh. He cursed under his breath as he made it over the wall. He tumbled when he hit the ground, unable to catch his weight on his feet.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Turow bellowed from the other side of the fence, "Go get 'im!"

"But boss," came the small reply from one of the men, "Dontcha know what's on the other side of that there fence?"

"What does it matter?" Turow growled.

"That's the Shifter's land," said the man again.

There was silence for a moment, then the low chortle of Turow could be heard, "Serves 'im right for runnin' from me. Even what I was offerin' 'im was better than what lies beyond this fence," Turow chuckled once more, "C'mon lads, let's go back to our catch and see what kind of gold we can get for the things they left be'ind,"

The boy listened as the footsteps retreated from the other side of the fence. What had they been saying? He was on the Shifter's land? Who and or what was a Shifter? The boy shifted his weight forward and started to stand only to be reminded by a startling pain that he had an arrow in his thigh. He hissed and rolled on to his left side. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pulled slightly. He quickly regretted it and curled up in response to the pain flaring in his leg. But he had to get the arrow out of his leg. It wouldn't surprise him if the head was laced with a poison of some sort, knowing bandits that is.

The boy removed one of his dyed leather wrist cuffs and placed it in to his mouth. He bit down—hard—on the leather and wrapped his hand around the arrow's shaft once more. He took a deep breath through his nose and then pulled will all his strength. He thought he was going to bite through his wrist cuff with the way his jaw clenched down on the material. He threw the arrow from him and curled his body in on itself. The pain was even worse when the arrow was extracted from his skin. Hopefully it hadn't done too much damage to the muscles in his legs. He had been lucky it missed the artery running through the appendage there. He opened his eyes and rolled back over. He could feel the blood soaking his pant leg. He needed to stop the bleeding. But his vision was already blurring from the loss of blood and the pain hazing his mind.

"Hey!" Came a voice. The boy looked up, his vision fading and his eyelids growing heavier by the second, "What are you doing there? This is private property—hey are you listening to me?" The owner of the voice was just a blob of blurred shapes to the boy. When the other person squatted down in front of the boy, his features were just a bit clearer and he was able to see the colour of the man's eyes.

"Wait a minute, you're hurt," said the stranger gently, "What the hell," he murmured. The stranger looked up from the arrow wound in the boy's leg to the boy's face.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked.

"Stiles," the boy breathed after a moment. Then he fell forward, his consciousness fading completely.

"Hey!" The stranger said, catching the younger male, "You can't just—god damn it."

Stiles had fever dreams and they were all haunted by startling green eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Little Red Prince

Stiles opened his eyes slowly. The light immediately assaulted his senses and made pain flare in his head. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut again and groaned loudly. How long had he been unconscious? His body ached, but only as a body does when it has been immobile for a period of time. He was also probably sore from his run from the gang of bandits. Stiles' heart started to beat faster. He sat up and looked around, ignoring the spreading ache through his head and his body. His vision spun with the sudden change in position.

"Woah there," came a deep voice. Stiles turned his head to focus on the noise and found a man he had never seen looking at him with a bemused grin.

"Who are you?" He asked, his voice bristling.

"The guy who saved your sorry little ass," the man replied with a growl. He stood up and moved towards Stiles. The younger male shrank back as the man's shadow fell over him.

"You should rest longer," he said, "That arrow was laced with a paralysis drug. It'll take about another half of a day for it to get completely out of your system,"

Stiles tried to hide his embarrassment. He shouldn't have lashed out like that. But it was how he had been raised his entire life—he had to be defensive.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so accusatory," Stiles murmured. He felt the man move away from him and Stiles looked up, "What's your name?"

The man glanced back at Stiles. Stiles didn't know that eyes could look so guarded. With a sigh, the man replied, "Hale. Derek Hale."

"Derek?" Stiles asked, as if trying the name out on his tongue, "That's a strange name," he said absently.

"Oh yeah, and "Stiles" isn't?" Derek retorted with a small snort.

Stiles frowned, "That's not my—" He stopped. Stiles didn't know if this man was a friend or foe just yet. Yes, he had helped him—a complete and total stranger—but in this day and age that didn't mean much.

"It's my mother's father's name. People always say that I look like him, so the name just kind of stuck," Stiles answered lamely. Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles, but did not press further.

"Well, anyway," Derek sighed, rolling his shoulders, "You should eat something. I don't have much, but I'll go throw something together," Derek turned and started to leave the room.

"No!" Stiles said abruptly, causing Derek to look at him once more, "I mean that I should be going. I need to check on my men—on my traveling companions,"

Derek's brilliant green eyes turned dark, "Turow and his gang of idiot throwaways have been sniffing around here waiting for you to leave. Stay here for a little while longer until he loses interest in you. That is unless you want to be sold to a perverse nobleman from overseas?"

Stiles shook his head quickly in response. This caused a small, dark smirk to stretch Derek's lips up slightly, "Good. Also, about your companions," Derek paused.

"What about them?" Stiles pressed, his brow creasing with slight worry.

Derek looked at Stiles for a moment before turning to leave the room once more, "I bet they've gone back by now," he murmured before ducking under the doorway.

Stiles sighed and laid back. The bed was strangely comforting. It had a scent to it that caused all the worry in Stiles' head to fade away. For some reason, Stiles felt safe in this place. Maybe it was the after effect of the paralysis drug on the arrow. The arrow wound! Stiles pulled the blankets of the bed up and looked underneath. His pant leg on his right leg had been ripped clean off and the wound on his thigh neatly dressed and wrapped in bandages. Stiles breathed a breath of relief—Derek hadn't had to see Stiles in his underwear. That would have been embarrassing no matter what the circumstances.

Stiles, now placated with his state, looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated. There were no portraits of people on the walls. Curtains hung from the windows were not of a pretty fabric and seemed to serve only as to block out unwanted light. The colours were bland—not the vibrant and deep colours that Stiles was used to. He frowned slightly. This placed seemed more of simply a shelter from the rain and elements than an actual home. Stiles looked up as he saw Derek returning with a bowl in his hands.

"Like I said," Derek began, "I don't have much around right now—don't usually have visitors in these parts. Soup is all you get for now,"

"Thank you," Stiles said as he reached out for the bowl. When it was in his hands, he hissed and had to fight the urge to drop the bowl. He quickly set it in his lap, the blanket causing a barrier between his skin and the earthenware.

"That's hot!" Stiles hissed looking sharply at Derek.

Derek blinked and the air turned tense for a moment as if Stiles had discovered some hidden secret, "Sorry, I didn't realize it,"

"No, it's all right. I should have expected it to have warmth. I guess I'm just not used to handling things like that," Stiles murmured, picking up the spoon carved from stone. The spoon itself had absorbed some of the heat from the soup, but wasn't untouchable. Tentatively, Stiles took the soup in to his mouth. His eyes widened instantly and he looked down at the bowl in his lap.

"This is delicious," he mumbled.

"What?" Derek scoffed, "Were you expecting poison?"

Stiles looked up at Derek so quickly it looked like it might have hurt. The fear that bubbled up inside of the boy showed in his dark eyes.

Derek frowned, "I was joking. I didn't put poison in it," Derek reached over, grabbed the spoon, and took a spoonful for himself, "See? No poison."

Stiles felt the fear drain from his body. He was fairly sure that he visibly deflated some, "Right a joke, of course."

Derek's frown deepened and his brow furrowed slightly, "What kind of life do you live that you're so tense? Judging by your clothes, I would say you're pretty well off,"

"A merchant's son," Stiles said automatically, "My father is a merchant," It was the story he had been taught to use should he ever be captured. He couldn't tell Derek who he actually was—not yet.

"That would explain a lot," Derek mumbled, "You operate out of Beacon?"

Stiles nodded, "What about you Derek?"

"I guess you could say my family comes from all over," he said with a dark chuckle. Stiles blinked at the sound. It wasn't one he was familiar with—the emotions behind it foreign to him.

"Where is your family? Do you live here all by yourself or—" Stiles began.

"There's no one left," Derek growled defensively. Stiles looked up at him and Derek looked steadily at him, "I'm all that remains,"

Stiles sat there for a moment. He could swear, that for a second, Derek's eyes had flashed red. But that was crazy and something you only heard about of mages. But there were very few mages on this continent and the ones that were had already been employed by the royalty and upper noble families. Stiles shook it off as a trick of the light.

"So," Stiles whispered, "You're all alone then?"

"No," Derek said slowly as if his patience was wearing thin, "There are others like me."

"You're part of a troupe then?"

Derek let out a listless laugh, "Something like that," He stood up, taking the now empty bowl from Stiles' hands. With his free hand he reached out and placed his palm on Stiles' forehead.

"You still have a bit of a fever. Try to sleep for just a little bit more," He removed his hand from Stiles' skin. It was such a familiar gesture that it nearly confused Stiles.

"Derek," Stiles called just as the elder male was about to exit, "Have we ever met before?"

Derek froze in place. He turned his head sideways, but did not look at Stiles, "No, we haven't," he answered gruffly. Then he left the room without another word. Stiles frowned, his mind ablaze with rampaging thoughts. The amount of comfort and safety that he felt around Derek was strange—even after the man had saved him and tended to his wounds. It was just too _familiar_. But Stiles couldn't think of a time when he wasn't under heavy watch. His friends were always chosen by hand to be of the best influence for him. Only the best for Stiles, they would always say.

Stiles sighed and got comfortable in the bed once more. He stared at the ceiling for a minute or two, before finally closing his eyes. He quickly drifted off to sleep, unaware of the pair of eyes watching him. Derek leaned against the doorframe and looked inside to the room. He moved silently, his form like darkness itself. He stood over the sleeping form of Stiles. Stiles breathed softly, the sound of air entering and exiting his nostrils filling the room. Derek reached out, pausing only for a moment. Stiles stirred in his sleep, as if his body sensed a predator was watching him. Derek shook his head and continued his motion. He tilted Stiles' head slightly so that he could see the left side of his skull. Sure enough, there was a scar just above the male's hairline.

"So that was you," Derek muttered absently. He let his hand return to his side and stood there for another moment. Stiles muttered something softly in his sleep. Derek snapped back to his senses and sneered at nothing in particular. A low growl escaped from his throat and he left the room quickly.

Stiles slept soundly. But he had fuzzy dreams. It was as if he was watching something happen from someone else's eyes. Or maybe it was a memory that had long been lost to him by time. But in the dream, Stiles swore that the person who had been with him had eyes that shined a haunting blue in the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Little Red Prince

Stiles was awoken to the sound of voices in the adjoining room. Stiles rubbed his eyes, sitting up. What had his dream been about? He felt like it was something familiar to him—but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. For some reason, thinking about it just made his head hurt. That was strange. He would have to talk to the physician when he returned.

"I told you he isn't dangerous," Derek growled in the other room. Stiles turned his attention to listen to the conversation. Who was Derek talking to? One of the others in his troupe maybe?

"How do you know that? What kind of person is out in these woods that isn't a bandit or rogue?"

"Isaac, those are the same thing," Derek said with a hint of humor in his voice.

"I don't care if they are or not! I'm telling you, the kid sleeping in your bed right now is a danger to our pack," Isaac said with a hiss, "Why is he even sleeping in your bed anyway?"

"He was being chased by Turow's men so I highly doubt he's one of them," Derek replied.

"What if he betrayed Turow and ran from his group? That would explain why they were chasing after him. Maybe the kid stole something," Isaac mused.

"Isaac," Derek said warningly, "Stiles isn't dangerous. He isn't part of Turow's gang—never was and never will be. He's a merchant's son,"

Stiles felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. Derek was defending him—someone he barely even knew—using only lies that Stiles had told him. Stiles tried to push past the feelings brewing inside of him. He pulled the blankets from him, immediately getting hit by the chill. When had dusk fallen? Had he really slept for so long?

"A merchant's son? Out here in the cursed Shifter's land?" Isaac said with a bit of a sarcastic tone in his voice, "Something about that isn't right Derek, and you know it," his voice changed to accusatory.

The growl that came as a response to Isaac's probing caused Stiles' blood to run cold.

"I already told you," Derek said, low and mean, "Stiles isn't going to hurt the pack. Or are you saying that you're challenging me, Isaac?"

"No, Derek," Isaac replied with a bite in his voice, "I'm not challenging you. I just hope you know what you're doing,"

Stiles couldn't stand it anymore. He wanted to see who this Isaac was. Stiles swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The balls of his feet touched the floor. The wooden floors were cold against his skin. Stiles could still hear the murmur of voices in the other room. He shifted his weight forward and pushed himself up on to his feet.

Stiles immediately regretted his decision. His injured thigh throbbed painfully and caused him to instinctively remove the cause of the discomfort. Because of this, he quickly took his weight off his right leg which caused him to become unbalanced. Stiles felt himself falling forward. He wasn't able to stop his toppling and soon he was becoming acquainted with the floor. He caught himself on his hands with a noisy thud.

"Stiles?" Came Derek's voice from the other room. Soon after that, Derek was in the room and standing above where the younger male had fallen, "What are you doing trying to get out of bed? You're injured, you idiot," he hissed.

"Sorry Derek, I had to use the chamber," Stiles lied lamely. His dark eyes flickered up towards the third person in the room. The person who Stiles assumed was Isaac stood in the doorway. The male looked down at Stiles with a certain darkness in his eyes.

Isaac didn't look much older than Stiles—maybe having just come of age. He had hair about the same length as Derek's, but with a bit more curl to it. His eyes were a dark blue that reminded Stiles of paintings of the ocean that he had seen before.

"If you need something," Derek said lowly, "Then call for me. As of right now, you've got a tear in the tendons of your thigh,"

"From the arrow?" Stiles asked, tearing his gaze away from Isaac.

Derek nodded, "Your muscles were also strained from your escape so you're lucky that the wound isn't deeper. It shouldn't take much longer than two weeks to heal,"

Isaac made a low noise in his throat, "Derek, in two weeks is—"

Derek turned his gaze on to Isaac and an even lower noise in his throat very similar to a growl. Isaac stopped talking and lowered his head, exposing his neck towards Derek. Stiles frowned minutely.

It was a moment before anyone spoke again. Eventually it was Derek that broke the silence, "Isaac, you can go," Isaac didn't argue. He simply nodded, his head still low, and disappeared from the doorway. Derek huffed out his nose in a small gesture of agitation and then turned back to Stiles.

"You said you needed to use the chamber?" Derek asked.

Stiles felt his cheeks flush slightly, "Yeah,"

"You can't walk on your own," Derek said. He didn't even try to phrase it as a question. Derek slid his arm underneath Stiles' and helped the younger male to his feet. They shuffled awkwardly for a few feet before find a rhythm that worked. Although, it was more of Derek carrying Stiles while Stiles' feet brushed against the ground every now and then.

"Derek," Stiles said after a moment, "Who was that?"

Derek glanced down at Stiles but didn't falter in his step, "His name is Isaac—"

"—another strange name—"

"—and he's a part of my pack," Derek finished with a pointed look at Stiles.

Stiles returned the look with a slightly confused one, "Your pack?"

"Troupe," Derek corrected quickly as he looked away from Stiles once more, "Sorry but the chamber's outside. You would have never found it on your own,"

"I didn't mean to interrupt you earlier—with Isaac I mean," Stiles mumbled,

"It's fine. Isaac is always bothering me with questions,"

"You don't sound too upset about it,"

Derek blinked and bit down on whatever response he might have given. They made it outside and towards the back of the property. Or at least Stiles assumed that it was near the back of the property. He couldn't see the fence he had jumped over the previous day. Just how much land did Derek live on? It didn't take too long to come upon a small structure. It wasn't much larger than a cabinet but Stiles had never seen anything like it.

"The pot's in there?" He asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Derek's mouth curved upwards ever so slightly, "It keeps the house from smelling this way,"

"That makes a lot of sense," Stiles mumbled as he eyed the structure. Derek opened the door and sure enough, a chamber pot sat listlessly on the ground.

"Will you be able to—" Derek began,

"No! I mean—yes. I can handle this myself," Stiles said quickly, trying to ignore the flush of heat at the tip of his ears. Derek shrugged after a moment and let Stiles down. Stiles limped slightly in to the structure and Derek shut the door behind him. The sound of the latch reverberated in the wooden structure. Something about the close walls and sudden darkness made Stiles' heart clench in his chest.

"Stiles?" Derek called from outside, "Is everything all right in there?"

Stiles willed himself to speak, "Yes. I'm fine," His voice was airy and almost stuck in his throat. Why was he having a panic attack now? The doctors had said that he shouldn't have them any more—that there was no reason for them. Yet, here he was, feeling like the world was slowly closing in on him. He felt his throat tighten and it became difficult for him to breathe.

Stiles leaned against the wall of the structure. His leg was beginning to ache with the effort of standing and he was finding himself short of breath. The small breath that he had was coming in shallow pants. He felt perspiration gathering on his upper lip and his heart thudded against his ribcage. Dizziness overcame him and he suddenly felt faint. What was happening? Light erupted across him as the door was thrown open.

"Stiles!" Derek hissed. Stiles' legs gave out just as the door was opened. Derek had just enough time to catch Stiles when he lost consciousness, "Stiles!" Derek hissed once more.

Stiles opened his eyes. He was immediately aware of the throbbing pain in his head. He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to his temple. He registered a slick feeling there. Frowning slightly, he pulled his hand away from his hand. Blood was on his fingers. Stiles felt another panic attack starting. What was happening? Why was he bleeding? He looked around and discovered that he was in a dark room. There were no windows and no way to tell what time it was.

"Hello?" Stiles called out, his voice sounding small and young in his own ears. There was no sound from the outside. Stiles maneuvered himself to sit on his knees. His entire body felt sluggish and like it was on fire at the same time. His eyes still hadn't gotten used to the darkness of the room and he felt around blindly. His hand brushed against something that felt like fabric and Stiles quickly pulled away. When he realized he wasn't in any danger, he reached forward again and found the fabric once more. There was a sound of chains against the ground followed by a low growl. Stiles' eyes took in as much light as he could and could make out the outline of a person.

"Don't touch me," growled a voice. Stiles complied by scooting away from the source of the sound. He moved until he hit against a wall and hisses as his head thumped painfully against the surface. He felt the drum in his head begin again and was reminded that there was a gash on the left side of his head. Someone must have hit him. But how? The last thing Stiles remembered was being with Lawrence in the marketplace. How had he been so easily captured like this?

Stiles shook his head—regretting it immediately because of the dull thrum of pain it caused—and turned his gaze back on the other person in the room. Light was gently entering the room from between the boards. The moon must have been behind a cloud earlier. Stiles could now see a little bit better. He squinted momentarily as he looked at his companion. He was older than Stiles—maybe seven or eight years of age—and he was sitting in the corner. He had his back to the wall with his gaze so that he could see everything that happened in the room. Stiles noted that the boy's eyes were shining blue in the light.

"Are you a mage?" Stiles asked, all childish curiosity.

The boy scoffed in response, "No. I'm not a stupid mage,"

"Hey!" Stiles hissed, "Mages aren't stupid! My daddy said so!"

"Oh yeah?" The boy asked mockingly, "Well my father said to never trust someone who trusts a mage,"

Stiles blinked at that and tilted his head slightly, "I only know one mage," he bites absently at his lower lip, "But he is kind of mean and yells at me a lot. I don't like him," Stiles declares with a decisive nod. Stiles thought he heard something like a snort from the other boy and this caused Stiles to grin slightly.

"You're bleeding," the other boy says. It's not even a question. Stiles reaches up to the left side of his head again and winces as he finds a deep cut just above his hairline.

After a sigh the other boy made a sweeping gesture with his hand, "Come here," he says.

Stiles was wary only for a moment before crawling his way back across the room.

"Sit," the boy commanded. Stiles did as he was told and sat in front of the boy with his left side to him. Stiles felt a little uncomfortable when nothing happened for a moment.

"You smell funny," the other boy mumbled as he ripped a strip of cloth from his tunic.

Stiles frowned and puffed his cheeks in defiance, "Nu-uh! I do not smell funny! You smell funny!"

"Do I?" The boy asked, tilting his head quizzically to the side. A smirk played on his lips as Stiles deflated.

"No, I can't smell you," Stiles looked at the boy out of his peripherals, "What do I smell like?"

"Different," he answered after a moment, "Like spices and the river," Stiles felt the boy's nose at the base of his neck as he inhaled deeply, "It's comforting," the boy said softly, a rumble in his voice.

"Is that a good thing?" Stiles asked quietly.

"I guess so," the boy mumbles, "Now hold still,"

The next moment Stiles feels something wet against his temple. It's warm and rough and has Stiles blinking in confusion.

"Are you licking me?" He asks, trying to keep himself from giggling, "It tickles! Quit it!"

"Hold still," the boy growled, but it had a light tone to it, "Doesn't your mom do this to you when you get a scratch?"

"No," Stiles shakes his head, "Mommy isn't at home. Daddy said she went on a really long trip,"

The boy doesn't answer to this. He just continues to lick the blood from Stiles' face. When he reaches the actual wound, Stiles yelps and tries to pull away from him. The boy just wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.

"You'll get sick if this isn't cleaned," he mumbles, returning to his cleansing. Stiles stays still the best he can but it stings a little and he can't help but to tear up slightly. The boy is making a low rumbling in his throat and it's strangely calming to Stiles. He felt his eyes drooping as his body slowly fell in to exhaustion. For some reason, he was very tired. Maybe the adrenaline had just all worn off by that point and his small body was ready for sleep. He leaned in to the heat of the other boy as he finished cleaning Stiles' wound. He wrapped it with the strip of cloth he had made from his own tunic.

"I never said you could sleep on me," the boy said. Stiles just made a grumble as he snuggled in to the boy's chest. Stiles' small fists wrapped around the cloth of the other boy's tunic as he felt the tug of sleep calling his name. The boy sighed, defeated, and leaned back to lie on the ground. Stiles changed his position, turning on his side and curling in to the boy.

"Warm," he mumbled sleepily, his head resting on the boy's chest as a pillow. He inhaled deeply, the smell of damp earth filling his senses and lulling him even faster to sleep. The other boy sighed again, placing his right arm under his own head while putting his left arm around Stiles. The boy allowed his eyes to close and he slept. It was the first time he had actually gotten a restful sleep in days.

"Well isn't this a cute sight," said a gravelly voice, bringing Stiles awake. He's actually jostled awake by sudden movement. The other boy has pushed Stiles behind him and is crouching in front of him, a low growl coming from him. A large man was standing in the doorway, casting a shadow in on the two boys.

He snarled angrily, "Down boy," he hissed. The boy doesn't even wince, his stance just tensing. The man scowled in disgust, "I hate having to deal with Shifter scum like you. Unfortunately you fetch a pretty penny, so no one really cares what I have to say with it. If it were up to me, I'd slit your throat and skin you for what you're worth,"

The boy just growled in response. This caused the man to sneer and stomp forwards. He raised his hand and brought it down swiftly, a crunch coming from the contact of the boy's body. The boy was knocked off his feet and slammed hard against the wooden wall of the structure. Stiles whimpered and covered his head as he tried to stop his trembling.

"Don't get too cocky just because you have someone to show off for now—you're still just a pup," the man said before spitting on the other boy, "Someone will be around to give you your daily rations. Eventually," With these words, the man left. He slammed the door behind him which caused the wooden structure they were in to shake slightly.

When the man had gone, Stiles jumped from where he was cowering. He scuttled over to where the boy was slowly getting up. His lip was curled up in an angry snarl and a dangerously low sound was rumbling from his throat. A rock had cut his forehead so a thin trail of blood was dripping down the side of his face.

"I'll kill him," the boy snarled, "I swear I will," his eyes flashed an electric blue and he trembled with rage. Stiles watched as the boy's teeth lengthened and the hair of his face became slightly thicker. His nails elongated and sharpened to points that looked like they could tear flesh. It was frightening to Stiles. Not knowing what to do, Stiles quickly took the elder boy in to his arms and squeezed him tight against him. A confused noise that sounded more animal than human came from the other boy. His body was tense, as if he had forgotten Stiles was even there. But Stiles refused to let go, his only movement to tighten the hug. After a second, the other boy seemed to relax a bit.

He patted Stiles' back, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm okay now,"

It was a second before Stiles accepted that and released the boy from his hold. Stiles looked up and his mouth fell open, "Your eyes are green!"

The other boy let out the beginning of a laugh before stopping himself, but he was still smiling slightly, "Of course they are, and your eyes are light brown,"

Stiles narrowed his light brown eyes suspiciously at the boy, "Are you sure you're not a mage?"

The boy's smile only widened, "Positive,"

"Then how did you do that," Stiles couldn't find the word for it so he just flailed his arms.

The boy shrugged, "I've been able to do it since I can remember,"

"That's so cool! Like out of a fairy tale!" Stiles exclaimed excitedly.

"Do you want me to do it again?" The boy asked.

Stiles felt like he should be afraid—like something about this should set off his danger sensors—but he just wanted to see it again. He nodded enthusiastically; feeling like his brain could rattle right out of his ears at any moment. The other boy smiled and opened his mouth to let Stiles watch as the boy's canine teeth lengthened and sharpened.

This is how they spent a majority of their time. Every day, someone would come by and throw in half a loaf of bread and a cup of water for the two boys to share. They would split the bread in two—Stiles always getting the larger piece. One time Stiles had knocked over the cup of water and felt so bad that he cried for an entire hour. The boy just shook his head and had told Stiles that he wasn't thirsty anyway.

When Stiles wasn't bothering the boy about him changing, Stiles was talking. Stiles would tell the boy stories that his mother had told him, or that he had read in a book, or that his nurse had told him. Sometimes he would even make up his own stories, acting them out for the boy. Each night they slept together. The weather was turning cold so Stiles would always curl up as close to the boy as he could. The boy was so warm; it was like Stiles was sleeping next to a fireplace.

They stayed there for five days. But then there was a commotion outside the shed. Stiles hid in the corner, the boy crouching protectively in front of him. His teeth were out and his eyes flashed blue dangerously. There was yelling and the metallic sound of swords hitting against each other. Then suddenly all the noise just stopped. After a moment, the only sound was the swift sound of footsteps in the dirt outside moving towards the shed. Stiles curled in on himself, covering his head with his hands. The door swung open swiftly and there was an exclamation from the person.

"Stiles!" Said the voice. Stiles perked up instantly. He squinted against the sunlight and squealed in delight when he could finally see the person standing there.

"Daddy!" Stiles yelled. He jumped to his feet, pushing past the boy. He leapt in to the arms of the now crouching man. The man enveloped Stiles in a crushing hug, holding him to his chest.

"Stiles, my Stiles," he murmured, cradling the boy against him. He pulled him away only for a moment to look at Stiles, "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Stiles shook his head quickly, "Nope! My friend fixed it all better!" He said gleefully, turning to look at the other boy. The other boy had moved himself in to the corner, still crouched in a defensive position. His eyes had returned to their green shade, but his teeth and nails were still long.

"Those teeth," the man—Stiles' father—murmured, "You must be of the Hale Clan,"

The boy's eyes widened and for a moment he actually looked like the child he was, "You know my family?"

Stiles' father nodded, "I know your father and I bet he's very worried about you. Why don't we get you both back where you belong?"

Stiles nodded quickly and the boy gave a small nod. Stiles' father lowered Stiles to the ground and walked over to where the other boy was. He knelt down and produced a ring of keys from his pocket.

"I had a feeling these would come in handy," he said, "Good thing I grabbed them off the big guy," He slid the key in to the shackle on the boy's leg and the cuff opened with a click. The boy rubbed at the reddened area and then looked up at Stiles' father. The man smiled and stood. He held out his hand, which Stiles quickly grabbed, and then turned to the other boy.

"Let's get you back home, shall we?" He asked gently, holding his other hand out to the boy. The boy looked at the hand for a long moment before taking it gingerly.

Stiles awoke with a start, gasping for breath. He sat up quickly, curling in on himself as he tried to regain his breathing. A dream, he thought, that had been a dream. He squeezed his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. But it had seemed so real, almost like a memory. Had it been a memory? Stiles had been so young in the memory; it wouldn't be uncommon for him to forget it. But why was he remembering it now? What was his body trying to tell him? He reached his hand up and gingerly touched the scar on his head. He could feel where his hair hadn't grown along the small line.

Stiles remembered where he was and looked around. Derek was sitting in a chair next to the bed. He wasn't too far away—maybe a couple feet. His arms were crossed over his chest and his head lulled slightly to the side. He had fallen asleep in the chair—more than likely watching Stiles. Stiles stared at Derek for a moment before sighing. He rubbed at his temples, trying to ebb away the dull ache there. Something that his father had said kept repeating in his head. _You must be of the Hale Clan._ Derek's last name was Hale. The ache increased in Stiles' head and he pressed his fingers harder against his temples. What did it all mean? Was Derek the boy from his memory? But he couldn't be—he had said himself that they had never met before. Then again, the boy in Stiles' memory had been pretty young. Maybe he had forgotten it as well.

The ache in Stiles' head was becoming a sharp pain. Stiles didn't want to think on it any longer. His head hurt, his leg throbbed dully, and his stomach felt as if it was turning itself inside out. He would ask Derek about it in the morning. Perhaps the boy had been one of Derek's relatives. Maybe green eyes ran in the family—that wasn't uncommon. After all, Stiles had the same color eyes as his father. It was very possible. But Derek had said that he was the only one left of his family. Stiles let out a small noise of frustration. There was too much to think about and he hurt too much to even start thinking. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Then he turned his gaze on the sleeping Derek. Stiles sighed once and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of damp earth and how the air smells after it's just rained. Without questioning the scent or its origin, Stiles was comforted by it and found himself drifting off to sleep once more.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Holy crud! I am SO incredibly sorry! I didn't even remember that I had posted this here! I am currently posting this story on two other host sites. It completely slipped my mind that this was on FanFiction. Shoutout to Rox who reminded me about it on AO3. I'll try to remember to update it here as well as on AO3 and Wattpad. Anyway, here's chapters four through nine to get you guys all caught up! _

Chapter Four

It had been ten days since the party from Beacon had left its walls. It only takes five days for a carriage to travel to the Animas Kingdom. A messenger—even on a slow horse—needs only three days to make the same passage. There should have been word from the party by now. A man around his late 40s paced the expanse of the throne room. His hands were clasped behind his back and his eyes were trained on the floor. He was muttering to himself.

"I knew I should have gone instead," he grumbled.

"Sire," came the reply of another man in the room, "I am sure that nothing has happened. I think it would be best if you sat down,"

"I can't sit still for even a moment knowing that my son is out there and that I haven't heard anything from his party for days. So go ahead, Darren, tell me to sit down one more time," the elder man hissed, moving so that he stood towering over Darren.

Darren lowered his head and took a half step back away from the other man, "Forgive me, your majesty, I meant no harm,"

The king was still for a moment before letting out a large sigh and turning to move toward the throne. He sat down heavily in the gilded chair and placed his head in his hands, "No harm was done. You are the Royal Advisor to the crown; it's your duty to advise me. It's just," the king paused, "He had begged me so wholeheartedly—how could I say no?"

"If you would like sire," Darren began, "We could send a search party?"

"No," the king mumbled, raising his hand in a stopping gesture, "If nothing has happened and I send out an entire party—my son would never forgive me," the king looked up, his eyes piercing the gaze of his advisor, "Summon Sir Argent,"

Darren bowed slightly, "As you desire, my king,"

Stiles sighed and let out a huge breath. He was so bored he thought he would go crazy. Derek had gone out a few hours ago—saying that he needed to go to town. Stiles' body had removed all of the paralysis drug and was able to move freely. His leg had healed enough that he was able to walk for small amounts at a time. It would still ache when he finished his moving, but nothing that wasn't so unbearable. By now, Stiles had met the rest of those in Derek's troupe. There were four of them—including Derek. In the troupe there were Derek, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. They each had interesting names that were obviously not of Beacon. That is except for Erica. Erica Reyes—which Stiles found ironic because "reyes" was the plural form of "king" in the Centralian language—said she actually came from the Beacon Kingdom. It was nice for Stiles to have someone to talk to about home. Erica spoke fondly of the place but never once called it "home."

Boyd was much larger than Stiles, larger than Derek even. Boyd's skin was a dark colour, much like those from the oversea kingdom of Morrojo. Stiles had never interacted with a Morrojon before. He'd only glimpsed them when some convoys came to speak with his father. While Boyd was not of many words, he did seem to have a sense of humor that Stiles could agree with. For as quiet as Boyd was and as loud as Stiles was, they got along fairly well.

Isaac, on the other hand, never warmed up to Stiles. He was always casting Stiles suspicious glares like he expected Stiles to suddenly bring out a sword and chop them all in half. Which Stiles honestly thought was crazy—at what point in this whole thing had Stiles even once come off as threatening? As far as Stiles could tell, every one of them saw Stiles as a little lost lamb wondering about in the woods. If anything, it was Stiles who was in a den of wolves. There were all these people around him that he really had no idea of who they were or where they came from. He had no idea what their intentions might be or for what reason they were still letting him stay there. But it wasn't as if he had any real value to them—they only knew him as a merchant's son.

It was the eleventh afternoon when things started to shift. They had all gathered for the afternoon meal and where there was normally lighthearted bantering, a tense atmosphere had replaced it. Stiles was able to walk for extended periods of time which meant that he was helping out a lot. He helped to forage in the nearby woods and even set traps for small game. He even helped with the cooking and cleaning. Although at first he wasn't very good at it, he slowly warmed up to the tasks. After the meal, Stiles was cleaning up and washing the dishes in a basin that was in the kitchen area. It had running water in the form of an indoor pump that went to a nearby well. As he put the dishes on a rack, Stiles heard the sound of combat coming from the back yard.

"Faster! More aggressive!" Derek yelled. This was countered by a snarl that made Stiles blink where he was. He moved through the house towards the sounds and found himself outside. Derek was standing in just his trouser pants. Boyd, Isaac, and even Erica, wore loose, unbelted tunics and loose trouser pants. He was used to Erica not wearing the dresses and togas that were uniform to the woman of the kingdom. But to actually see her dressed in a tunic and practicing combat was an interesting sight to see in the least. Stiles stood at the edge and watched as Boyd, Isaac, and Erica all threw themselves at Derek with different styles and approaches. Derek easily tossed each one off in turn. Isaac hit the ground with a satisfying thud and a rush of breath leaving his body which made Stiles have to hide his grin.

"Come on," Derek encouraged, "Can't someone try something new for once?"

Erica replied with a growl and lunged from her position on the ground. She jumped in the air and landed on Derek's chest. Derek—not falling over—caught her weight and found himself being kissed by Erica. Stiles blinked and felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. Derek and Erica stayed lip-locked for what seemed like ages before Erica was raising a hand. She made a motion to swipe down against Derek's neck—either slit his throat or sever his spinal cord—when he pushed her away from him and threw her right next to where Isaac still laid.

"You won't be doing that again," Derek growled at her, his lip raising in a snarl.

Erica scoffed, "Why not?"

"Because I have someone else in mind," Derek replied tersely. Erica replied by raising her eyebrows at him. Derek's glare only darkened, "For you—someone else for you," he corrected quickly.

Erica sighed and sat up. She flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder and fixed Derek with a look, "Why not just give it up Derek? That person from your memory is probably long gone by now. You even said it yourself that you two probably would have never met if you hadn't—"

"That's enough!" Derek yelled. Erica looked taken aback and her mouth was left hanging on the unspoken words. She looked around uncomfortably and closed her mouth after she didn't find any back up in either Boyd or Isaac.

Derek let out an irritated breath and pinched his glabella, "Now are we going to continue to make useless chatter or are we actually going to try some training?"

"We're not making any progress," Isaac mumbled as he stood up. He winced slightly as he straightened his back and rubbed at his backside. There was dirt smudged on his trousers and his tunic—which seemed to be fairly uniform among the trio. Only Derek remained mostly clean as if he was unbeatable.

"Well then, let's try our luck with the blade, shall we?" Derek suggested with feigned excitement in his voice. The three instantly groaned and their previously nimble movements turned sluggish and forced.

"Blade?" Stiles finally said.

Isaac turned his gaze on Stiles, "Yeah. You know, swordplay?"

"Really? You guys practice with actual swords?"

"Actually," A wicked gleam came in to Isaac's eyes, "Why don't you try it out some Stiles?"

Stiles shrugged, "I don't see why not,"

"Have you ever even held a sword?" Derek interrupted.

"I'm more than just a pretty face," Stiles joked, looking at Derek and meeting his gaze head on.

Derek held Stiles' gaze for a moment before rolling his shoulders, "Boyd—get the blades," Boyd nodded and disappeared for a moment. Stiles also began to limber his muscles. He hoped that it would just be a nice little work out. He couldn't imagine Derek really being too much of a problem. Stiles had been trained in sword fighting since he was old enough to hold a blade. Even though Derek had about fifty pounds of muscle on Stiles, that would make the elder man have to use more energy to maneuver his sword.

Boyd returned and tossed one of the swords at Derek. The male easily caught it by the hilt and released the momentum by allowing the blade to circle as he rolled his wrist. Stiles took his blade—with a notably smaller amount of grace—and held it in his hands. He measured the weight and felt a pit in his stomach. Stiles missed his sword from home; no doubt the bandits had found it and it had already been sold for scrap and nowhere near its actual worth. He sighed and adjusted his grip on the handle of the sword he was now holding. It was a little heavier than what he was used to, but nothing he couldn't account for in his movements. After a quick glance at the weapon, Stiles realized that it really wasn't much of a weapon at all. The blade had no point and it was about 2 millimeters wide with no sharp edges. If anything, there would just be some serious bruises left on whoever was unlucky enough to make contact with the blade.

"Now Stiles," Derek called from his spot in the yard, "If this gets to be too much for you, just say so. You're still injured,"

Stiles smirked slightly at Derek, "I think I should be fine," With that, Stiles spread his feet to be about shoulder width apart. His weight was distributed evenly between his feet. He raised the sword till the bottom of the hilt was about at his floating rib. Now he just had to wait for Derek's move. Stiles looked at Derek and saw something flash in his eyes—recognition perhaps—before the elder man moved forward.

At first it was just forward attacks—mostly on Derek's part—to gauge where Stiles' abilities were. When Derek discerned that Stiles had in fact had some training with a blade, he decided to move on to more advanced techniques. Derek began to start using side stepping motions to go for the striking areas of the shoulder and upper arms. However, because of Derek's lack of a tunic, Stiles was easily able to watch the man's muscles and discern how he would strike next. Stiles stayed on the defensive, parrying like an expert. Derek would strike forward, going for Stiles' torso, and Stiles would combat the strike by catching it at the base of his blade before twisting to break Derek's grip.

The two broke apart, both of their breathing heavier than when they started. They circled each other—every time Derek would cross step behind him Stiles would counter with his own cross step in the opposite direction.

"Not too bad," Derek said after a moment.

"You've got a few techniques yourself," Stiles mumbled. Their eyes never left the other. The corner of Derek's mouth quirked up ever so slightly. This was the first time in a long time that he had ever been in a stalemate with a sparring partner. It was—exhilarating. He swiped his tongue over his teeth as he tried to push back the tingling sensation he was feeling in his gums. If he got too excited with the full moon only three days away—Derek would never let that happen. Derek stopped circling Stiles and pushed his left foot back. He put about 70% of his weight on his back foot. He brought his blade in front of him, with the tip pointing directly at Stiles' eyes.

Stiles furrowed his brow and changed his own stance. He spread his legs slightly but kept his weight even. He had mirrored Derek in putting his left foot behind. He lifted the sword so that the end was pointed downward. It was a defensive stance and a strong one at that. Derek charged forward, his upward sword meeting Stiles' downward sword. Their blades scraped together as each man attempted to overpower the other. Unfortunately, the stances counteracted each other and made up for the lack of muscle on Stiles' part. They broke apart only for a moment before their blades were once again clanging together. They seemed to be even in sword handling, but Stiles had something Derek didn't and it was catching up with him fast—an injury. He hadn't noticed it at first with the adrenaline pumping through his veins but now that they were at a standstill, pain started to flare up Stiles' leg.

They broke apart once more and Stiles took a step back. He winced and removed the weight from his leg. Derek saw his chance and knocked Stiles' sword from his hands while he was unguarded. The blade went flying and clattered to the ground. In the same motion, Derek swept Stiles' feet out from under him and caused the boy to fall on to his back. All of Stiles' breath left him in a huff and his head hit against the ground with a hard thud. Stiles saw stars and gaped as he lay on the ground. Before he knew it, the sound of a sword cutting through the air caught his attention. He looked up just in time to see Derek point his sword right at Stile's neck. The sun was behind Derek, as Stiles was looking up at the male. Stiles squinted as his eyes adjusted. For a moment, he thought Derek's eyes were red.

They were both panting fairly heavily but Stiles was the only one feeling any pain. Neither had been able to land a hit. Stiles cursed his luck. He hadn't had such a good joust for a fairly long time. The only one who he could go toe to toe anymore was his instructor. All the others would even go easy on him because of his position. It got fairly annoying fairly quickly. But Derek didn't care—didn't know—about any of that. He had come at Stiles with everything he had and Stiles had never felt so gladdened by the fact. The idea of a sparring partner that would actually go after Stiles was intoxicating.

Derek removed his sword from its position at Stiles throat. He held out his hand and Stiles took it in a firm grasp. Derek helped Stiles to his feet. Stiles wobbled a bit, hissing as his leg throbbed in a complaint. He leaned only slightly in to Derek—not that he would ever admit that fact to anyone if they ever asked.

"Kukishinden Ryu," Derek grumbled.

Stiles looked up, "What?"

"_Hasso no Kamae_, _Chudan no Kamae_, and even blocking my _Seigan no Kamae_ with_ Gedan no Kamae_—Stiles where did you learn Kukishinden Ryu?" Derek hissed.

Stiles blinked for a second before his brain clicked back in to place, "From my instructor,"

"What is his name?" Derek asked, his voice sounding like a growl.

"I doubt you would know him I mean—"

"_Stiles," _Derek snarled, "His _name,_"

"Sir Argent," Stiles said quickly. His heart was racing—as if he was a rabbit cornered by a wolf. Derek's eyes widened only a fraction before his face smoothed back in to his mask of indifference. He quickly let go of Stiles' hand and Stiles tottered dangerously from the sudden lack of support. Derek strode away from him and that's when Stiles could see Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all looking at him with wide eyes.

"Did he just say," Erica swallowed, "Argent?" Boyd moved silently to stand slightly in front of Erica—between Erica and Stiles. Stiles frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Isaac's face turned in to a vicious snarl, "_Sir Argent?_ As in the head of the entire Royal Guard, Sir Argent? As in the Sir Argent who also heads all the _hunts_?"

"I know, Isaac," Derek said through taut lips.

"This kid has sword training from Sir Argent?" Isaac continued to press, his voice slowly rising in to a yell, "What would a merchant's kid need lessons from _Sir Argent_ for? Derek—"

"I said I know Isaac!" Derek roared as he turned to look at Isaac. Isaac visibly shrunk back from the force of Derek's voice.

Derek turned his gaze on Stiles, "You aren't really a merchant's son, are you?"

Stiles swallowed hard and shook his head, "No, I'm not."

Derek stared at Stiles for a long time and Stiles squirmed under the scrutinizing gaze. A moment later, Derek's lips opened in speech, "Isaac, Boyd, Erica—go home,"

"But Derek—" Erica began. Derek merely turned his head towards them. All three of them lowered their heads and scurried away. Stiles thought the image very similar to dogs retreating with their tails between their legs. When Derek was satisfied with the distance of the trio, he slowly looked back at Stiles.

"Who are you really?" He asked, his voice low and calculated.

Stiles looked down and kicked at a pebble by his foot, "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you,"

"Stiles," Derek growled.

"I'm," Stiles swallowed and looked up at Derek. The man's green eyes were hardened and Stiles had never felt so cold in his life. He took a deep breath.

"My name isn't actually Stiles. My real name is Genim. Genim Stilinski. My full title is—"

"Crown Prince Genim Stilinski," Derek said, his voice sounding akin to a breathy whisper, "You're the prince of Beacon Kingdom?"

Stiles flinched at the disbelief in Derek's voice, "Yeah,"

The silence that then filled the air made Stiles' stomach twist in to one large knot.

"The full moon," Derek muttered after what seemed like forever.

Stiles looked up, "What?"

Derek's gaze was unreadable. He didn't seem angry—maybe a little hurt, "You'll go back on the full moon. That's in three days' time. Until then," Derek paused, "Just don't make any trouble," Derek turned and started to go back inside.

"Why then? Why wait? I betrayed your trust—why not send me back now?" Stiles called after Derek.

Derek stopped, but didn't turn to face Stiles, "It's not safe now. Turow and his men are still scattered about the forest. I'm sure they're looking for you whether they know your true worth or not. It will be safest during the full moon,"

"Why is that?" Stiles asked.

Derek turned his gaze to Stiles. This time there was no denying the red of the man's eyes, "No one will be in these woods during the full moon—if they know what's good for them," Derek said with a snarl. With that, he ended the conversation and walked back to the cottage. Stiles stood there, and for once in his life, was speechless.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Stiles sighed. He flopped over from his stomach to his back. He was laying on one of the extra beds in Derek's cottage. He had woken up a few hours ago but couldn't make himself get up. How had everything become so messed up? Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat down. Maybe he should have been honest with Derek in the first place. It didn't really seem like Derek cared that Stiles was the next in line for the throne for the Beacon Kingdom. Derek had just looked _betrayed._

Stiles shook his head and stood up. He walked out of the room and stopped abruptly when he saw the four of his housemates in the living room. They, in turn, stopped their conversation and looked up. Isaac snarled at Stiles before turning and going outside. Boyd made a face that didn't seem too disapproving, more calculating actually. Erica winked at Stiles, which made him blink in response. She offered a small chuckle before she and Boyd followed behind Isaac. That just left Derek and Stiles. Stiles shifted uncomfortably under Derek's gaze.

"We need to talk," Derek said after a minute. Stiles blinked and looked up at Derek. Stiles quickly closed his slack jaw and nodded a few times. Derek made a small "follow me" motion with his head and turned to exit the cottage. Stiles stumbled after him before remembering how his legs worked.

They walked past the fence that surrounded the land and in to the forest. It was quiet in the cover of the trees. Sunlight streaked through in patches here and there, casting golden light on to the green plants. Stiles heard the far off chatter of birds and even the chirping of some bugs. It was calming and comforting. Stiles shifted his gaze to glance at Derek. The male's jaw was clenched tightly. Stiles recognized the tension as Derek's attempt not to scowl. To anyone else, Derek would seem angry and displeased. But Stiles thought that he just looked like he had no idea where to begin. Stiles chuckled to himself as this was probably the case. In the past twelve days that Stiles had been here, Derek didn't say much more than two sentences. Stiles was convinced if Derek strung together three or more sentences, he would explode from the effort of it. The sound of Derek's voice nearly startled Stiles.

"What were you doing in the woods in the first place?" Derek asked.

Stiles inhaled deeply, "We were supposed to go to the Animas Kingdom to speak with someone about extending the market periods. The Beacon Kingdom gets most of its goods through trade with Animas. Because we have a port and Animas doesn't, all of their exports go through Beacon. Their craftsmen are the best in the world and it shows in their products. My father and I felt that it would really help the merchants and craftsmen of Animas if we could have longer to trade their products,"

Derek nodded slowly, "So Turow's men ambushed your carriage. But why were you running?"

"It would have been fine," Stiles mumbled, "If one of his men—Walcune I think he called him—hadn't found the royal seal tucked away in one of the packs,"

"They knew that one of you was valuable," Derek commented.

Stiles nodded, "They just didn't know which one. My face has never actually been made public—no one knows what I look like, just that I exist,"

"Why not?"

"I'm the only heir," Stiles shrugged, "I guess they think that it's safer if no one knows what I look like,"

Derek's brow furrowed and the slightest hint of a scowl graced his features, "Why doesn't the king just make more heirs?"

"Because," Stiles hissed as he shot a glare at Derek, "My father loves my mother,"

"That doesn't—the queen died a few years ago," Derek mumbled as he remembered.

Stiles nodded once more, "My father refuses to remarry and he also doesn't take any concubines. I'm all he has,"

"I see," Derek said. They didn't talk for another moment.

"My travel companions—are they—" Stiles began softly.

"Dead," Derek replied quickly, "I'm sorry," he added after a second.

Stiles swallowed and blinked hard. That was the world that they lived in. It was a kill or be killed time—something that Stiles very much wanted to change during his reign. Life was too precious to kill so easily. Losing his mother had taught him that.

"You don't have to apologize, Derek. It's not like you," Stiles said with a forced cheerfulness.

"You don't even know me, Stiles," Derek muttered after a moment.

"So tell me something,"

Derek looked at him strangely, as if Stiles had just sprouted wings and suggested they bathe in lava, "What?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, "Tell me something about you—about your family,"

Derek stared at Stiles for a long time before he opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of horse hooves began to echo through the air. Derek and Stiles both turned towards the sound.

"Get down!" Derek hissed, grabbing Stiles and pulling him to the ground. Stiles made a less than glorified sound but hid all the same. The two waited as the sound got louder and closer. They watched as two men came in to view. It was Turow and Walcune.

"Boss, I've noticed that lately the Royal Guard has been sniffing around the woods. Do you think they're looking for that carriage from a few days back?"

Turow scoffed, "What's it matter to us? We already sold off everything of value and there's no one left to talk about it. For all any stupid Guardsmen will know, it was common bandits,"

"What about the boy?" Walcune asked softly.

"Dead by now—'e was on Shifter land. You know the stories as well as I do," Turow said. Their horses continued by and Stiles and Derek were left unnoticed. After another minute or so, Derek and Stiles rose from their hiding spots.

"I need to get to Animas," Stiles murmured, "Can we go back to the carriage?"

"Weren't you listening?" Derek hissed, "Turow and his men gutted that carriage for all it was worth,"

Stiles looked away from Derek, "I know, I heard them. But I have to see if it's still there," With that he turned and started to head in the direction Turow had come from. If he followed the path long enough, he would be sure to find where the carriage had been ambushed. Behind him, Stiles heard Derek sigh loudly before following after the younger male.

It was only about an hour before they found the remains of the wreckage. Stiles refused to let his hope die as he made his way over to what was left of the carriage. The curtains had been removed, the metal from the wheels had also been taken, and even the cushions from the seats had been grabbed from the carriage. But the seat remained intact. Stiles allowed a small smile to come to his lips. He felt around on the side of the bench and made a triumphant noise when he found the switch lever. The front of the bench came open with a slight pop and Stiles reached inside. He pulled out a long box that was the length of the bench. He opened it and his face brightened instantly. Inside the box, his sword sat just as he had left it in its sheath. He grabbed the sheath and wiggled his way out of the carriage. He walked over to where Derek stood watch.

"A sword?" Derek asked, his eyes falling on the black sheath, "You came all this way for a sword?"

Stiles simply nodded, "Yeah. It's proof of who I am," Stiles said. He pulled the sword out slightly and Derek saw the intricate engravings in the blade. But one of the focal points was the Royal Crest at the hilt of the sword. The sword clicked back in to place as Stiles slid it back in to the sheath.

"Now I can get an audience with the Animas king," Stiles chewed his bottom lip, "Hopefully."

Derek stared at Stiles for a moment before letting out a short breath and running a hand through his hair, "I'll go with you—to Animas,"

Stiles blinked, "What?"

"Did I stutter?" Derek hissed, "We'll leave at nightfall," Derek said with finality in his voice. Stiles blinked once more. But he was smiling as he attached his sheath to his waist and scampered after Derek.

They were about an hour and a half away from Derek's cottage. Stiles leg was only beginning to ache, but he would tend to that once they got back.

"Derek," Stiles said, unable to stand the silence, "How do you know about Kukishinden Ryu? I mean, it's based out of the Eastern Continent. I don't really take you as a traveling kind of guy and there are only like two people here on the Western Continent that know about it—"

"My dad," Derek interrupted, "He went to the Eastern Continent when he had just come of age. He learned it then,"

"So you learned it from your dad?"

"Yeah," Derek let out a small huff that could be seen as a chuckle, "He was always commenting on the barbaric fighting styles of the Western Continent. He would say that only the Easterners knew of true grace,"

"Your dad sounds like my dad," Stiles commented softly, "When he goes out to train with the knights, he always comes back grumbling about all their wasted energy in their movements,"

"Your father," Derek hesitated, "He's a good king,"

Stiles was struck speechless. He looked at Derek for a good moment before looking down, "Thanks," Stiles chewed on his lip once more, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you,"

"Tell me what?"

"That I'm—that I was—I mean,"

"Stiles," Derek stopped him, "I understand. You don't know anything about me or my ties to the Kingdom—you couldn't risk it. Like you said, you're all the Kingdom has,"

"Oh, yeah, you're right," Stiles mumbled.

"You were out on official business. I'm assuming the Animas Kingdom was expecting you and your party?"

Stiles nodded, "Probably days ago. I wouldn't be surprised if they've sent a messenger back to my father saying that I haven't arrived yet," Stiles groaned, "He's going to be so mad at me!"

"I doubt that," Derek said softly, not looking at Stiles, "If we leave tonight, we can get there by midday tomorrow,"

"All right, it will probably take a day to get an audience with the people I need to talk to. I don't have any money," Stiles said with sudden remembrance, "But we can sell some of the embellishments from my clothes to pay for an inn for the night,"

Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles, "Good idea,"

Stiles smirked back at him, "Everything I do has a purpose—even how I dress," Stiles' eyes widened, "Oh no! My trousers! They're maimed from that arrow that idiot Walcune shot in to me! I can't wear those to meet with the king!"

Derek literally rolled his eyes, "Stiles. I had Boyd mend your trousers days ago. He's much handier with a needle and thread than one would think,"

"But the bloodstains—"

"Herbal soak, also courtesy of Boyd," Derek countered.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek, "What other things can Boyd do that I've missed?"

A devilish glint came in to Derek's green eyes, as if he had just remembered a private joke, "You'd be surprised. Each of us has our own little—quirk,"

"What a strange troupe you are," Stiles grumbled as they entered the clearing where Derek's cottage sat.

Isaac would hear none of their plan and promptly left the cottage. Erica began to pack small bags for them to take. Derek went to change and Stiles also moved to his room. His scarlet clothing had been laid out for him and he smiled. He lifted his trousers and marveled at the craftsmanship that Boyd had done. You couldn't even tell that the leg had been cut away. The scarlet of the fabric also wasn't any darker where the hole from the arrow had been mended. There was no evidence that Stiles had ever been shot by an arrow. Well, other than the slowly healing wound on his thigh, that is. Stiles pulled his clothes on. He fastened the tunic up the middle as it was crafted and buckled his belt across his waist. He also buckled his sword's sheath to sit on his hips. The weight of it at his side was comforting. He grabbed the brown traveling cloak that had also been laid out and fastened it at his neck.

Stiles walked out of the room adjusting his clothes. Erica let out an appreciative noise.

"Well, now that you've cleaned up a little, I can see a prince in you," She purred.

Stiles gave her a lopsided grin, "I sure hope so. It would be embarrassing for a prince to not look the part,"

Erica smiled and opened her mouth to comment before her gaze moved to the left of Stiles, "Well, speaking of looking the part," She muttered. Stiles blinked and turned to see what she was looking at.

Stiles swallowed hard as he spotted Derek. Stiles would never have even imagined that Derek would own such clothes. They seemed to be from a station much above Derek's. Although, Stiles really didn't even know what station Derek really belonged to. Derek had changed to clothes very similar to Stiles' own clothes. The cloth itself was the darkest, richest black that Stiles had ever seen. The linings were done in gold embroidery. Instead of the panel fastening up the middle like Stiles' own tunic, Derek's front panel went across his breast. There were three bright gold buttons that shone stark against the fabric and an insignia that Stiles had never seen before stitched in to the black fabric. The tunic remained unbelted and yet it was fitted so well that it pulled in at Derek's waist. The tunic had a tall collar, going up to the middle of Derek's neck. His pants hung straight as if they had been pressed. The seams along the side were also done in the same gold as the tunic. Derek also had a sword strapped at his side, the sheath deep obsidian. He pulled at the cuffs at his wrist and looked up. He found Erica, Boyd, and even Stiles staring at him.

"What?" He asked, voice and face deadpanned.

"Brooding," Erica whispered, "I like it," She smirked and turned to go get their packs. Stiles blinked at Derek who stared right back.

"What?" Derek repeated.

"N-Nothing," Stiles stammered, looking down quickly, "I didn't know you had—what I mean is—that is,"

"So am I good enough to stand with a prince?" Derek asked with a smug smirk.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled, "Good enough—more than good enough,"

"All right you two," Erica called as she returned to the room, "Here are your packs. There's a set of sleep clothes, some rations, and a few extra things I thought you might need," She handed each one a small buckskin sack. Stiles threw his over his shoulder. Stiles was adjusting the strap when he heard Erica whispering to Derek.

"Be careful," She whispered, "You probably won't be back by the full moon. We'll be fine, but I'm worried about you,"

Derek took his sack from her, "Erica, I'll be fine. I've gone through a good number of full moons in my time—this one won't be any different,"

Erica gave him a look, something akin to a small frown, before nodding and stepping back. Derek led Stiles out of the cottage.

"So, are we toughing it out on foot?" Stiles asked, adjusting his travelling cloak.

"Oh no, you'll get the best treatment," Derek said smugly, "Your royal highness,"

Stiles groaned outwardly, "You're having too much fun with this," Stiles looked up as Boyd came around the cottage leading two horses. One was a roan gelding, his coat a light brown very similar to Stiles' eyes. His mane and tail were a white colour. The other horse—Stiles had never seen a horse that just seemed so powerful. It was a warhorse to say the least. The horse was easily fifteen hands tall. It's coat was as black as the fabric of Derek's tunic. Derek placed his hand on the horse's muzzle and the bloodstock neighed appreciatively.

"He was my father's horse," Derek muttered to no one in particular. With that, Derek fastened the black traveling cloak around his neck. He pushed it out of his way as he put one foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself on to his mount. Stiles followed suit, pulling himself on to his horse.

Derek grabbed a hold of his reigns and turned sideways to look at Stiles, "Don't fall behind," With that, he snapped the reins and squeezed with his thighs. The black stallion reared up on to its hind legs with a loud whinny before lowering and starting at a fast canter. Stiles was stunned momentarily before kicking his gelding's flank, spurring him to follow behind Derek.

Boyd stood and watched them depart. Erica came and stood next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her waist.

"They'll be all right," Boyd murmured reassuringly.

Erica nodded, "I hope you're right,"

Derek and Stiles traveled at a consistent canter for about five miles. Then they slowed to a walk to allow the horses to cool for three miles. They stopped to feed and water the horses, then continuing to walk on foot for another two miles. By then the sun was starting to lower over the horizon.

"Stay close," Derek muttered, checking the horses, "When night falls, that's when it gets really dangerous,"

Stiles nodded and turned his gaze skyward. The moon was nearly full—only a small sliver of darkness remained at the edge of the orb. His gelding made a low whinny and bumped his head against Stiles' shoulder. Stiles ran his hand soothingly down the front of the horse's muzzle. They walked silently, the only sound their feet and the smooth clicking of the horse hooves against the occasional stone. The sun finally vanished and darkness covered the forest like a wool blanket. The canopies of the trees blocked out most of the moonlight. A small streak of silver broke through the foliage here and there, but it was mainly the inky blackness that was night.

Stiles tripped more than once in the bleakness. He squinted against the night and could just barely make out Derek in the darkness.

"Hey Derek," Stiles called, "Why don't we camp out for the night?"

"Why?" Derek replied.

Stiles rolled his eyes, "Because I can't see anything. I don't know how well you might think you know these woods, but there is no way we aren't going to get lost at this rate,"

The sound of Derek's horse stopped and Stiles assumed that meant they were stopping.

"Tether your horse to mine," Derek commanded.

Stiles blinked, "What good is that going to do us?"

"Stiles," Derek said in his harsh voice. Stiles sighed dramatically and pulled his pack down from where he had attached it to his saddle. He grubbed around until his fingers fell over a length of rope. With just his sense of touch, he deftly tied a lead to his horse's bridle. Stiles started to step forward and stopped.

"Derek, I really can't _see_," he hissed in to the darkness. He heard Derek let out a tight breath and then the sound of his boots were echoing in the air. Stiles only saw Derek when he was right in front of him. Derek grabbed the rope from Stiles' hand, their fingers brushing momentarily. Stiles inhaled sharply at the contact—Derek's hands were rough and warm. Stiles' nose picked up the scent of wet earth and his brow furrowed in confusion. It hadn't rained in months, were they near a stream?

Derek moved away from Stiles and Stiles heard some shuffling as Derek tied his gelding to the saddle of his charger. The large black horse gave a satisfied neigh, as if he had been waiting to pick up the pace.

"Get on," Derek said from beside his horse. Stiles could just make out Derek in the stream of moonlight that was breaking through the treeline. Derek was facing Stiles and holding the horse steady. His eyes seemed to glow red in the darkness.

"You want me to get on your horse?" Stiles asked, his voice shaking. That horse was huge! There was no way it was going to let someone like Stiles ride him. Derek sure—he exhumed power and control. Stiles was like a mouse among lions.

Derek made a sarcastic snort, "No, I want you to get on my back—yes get on my horse," he hissed. Stiles stuttered in to action. He moved forward, trailing his hand along the mount's flank so that he knew where Stiles was the entire time. Stiles looked skeptically at the distance between the ground and the stirrup. Derek cleared his throat, which made Stiles jump slightly. In the darkness, Stiles couldn't make out the smug grin on Derek's face.

Stiles placed his foot in the stirrup, his grip tightening around the saddle horn. Stiles took a deep, steadying breath before jumping up from the ground. He tried to pull himself up on to the mount, but he was such a tall horse! Stiles wasn't able to get high enough to swing his other leg around. He bounced slightly on the ground before trying once more. Stiles let out a small noise as he felt Derek give him a small boost. Stiles was easily able to swing his leg around this time and sit in the saddle. The horse huffed slightly as he adjusted to the sudden momentum of Stiles' mount. Stiles gripped the horn tightly. He blinked and looked down at Derek.

"Thanks," He muttered.

"If we keep going, we'll reach Animas by dawn," Derek tilted his head up towards Stiles, "That is, if you think you can handle such a rigorous schedule, my prince," Derek ended with a deep and mocking bow.

"Yeah—no I mean—I'll be fine," Stiles stuttered. With that, Derek made a clicking sound with his tongue and the party moved forward. Stiles was glad, at that moment, that it was nighttime. He felt a heat to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It was strange—someone calling him their prince. Because no one knew who he was, no one had ever addressed him as such. He barely left the palace except for outdoor training with Sir Argent. To have Derek calling Stiles his prince, as if he was willing to follow and serve Stiles—it made Stiles feel like he was flying. He knew that Derek was just making fun of him, but if one day Derek would trust Stiles enough to actually see him as his prince Stiles knew that he would immediately accept Derek. Stiles was left alone to his thoughts for the rest of the journey.

Right as dawn broke, Derek and Stiles had stopped to water the horses and let them rest for an hour. Stiles was jostled awake when Derek nudged his shoulder. Stiles must have fallen asleep some time when he sat down next to Derek. Stiles sleepily rubbed at his eyes, his nose picking up the faint scent of damp earth. He frowned and looked around.

"Did it rain?" He asked.

Derek turned his gaze on him for a moment before looking back at his horse, "No, why?"

"Because it smells like the earth after it has just rained," Stiles mumbled, "What a nostalgic scent,"

Derek was silent for a moment before hoisting himself up on to his horse. He looked down at Stiles, "Let's go. We aren't far from the Animas Kingdom,"

Stiles nodded listlessly and rose from his place. He gently stroked the neck of his gelding before pulling himself up in to the saddle. The two started off at a fast trot.

The sun had only been in the sky for a couple of hours when the outer walls of the Animas Kingdom came in to view. The large doors had been opened and the portcullis had been raised to allow visitors. Derek and Stiles passed through, their horses slowing to a walk. Stiles looked to the tops of the walls and spotted a few guards posted there. The keen eyes of hawks and other birds of prey looked back at him as they entered. Stiles swallowed hard and returned his gaze to staring at Derek's broad back.

The Animas Kingdom and Beacon Kingdom were different in many ways. But one of the most important differences was the citizens. In the Beacon Kingdom, the population was fleshed out with humans of all shapes and sizes. In the Animas Kingdom, the citizens were animals—humanoid creatures but with the faces and characteristics of animals. They walked on two legs and had arms with thumbs. But the people of the Animas kingdom had the faces of leopards, lizards, birds, and even some sea life—however they usually tended to work in the harbors of the Beacon Kingdom.

Derek and Stiles moved through the busy streets at a slow pace, careful of those walking near them. Derek slowed down and kept his horse next to Stiles'.

"Let's stop at the inn and leave our horses at a stable," He said just loud enough for Stiles to hear him over the crowd, "Then we can head towards the palace and request an audience," Stiles nodded in response and followed Derek as they made their way towards the inn.

Derek paid for the room with some coins from his purse. They left their packs and cloaks in the room before venturing out again. In order to make it to the palace, one had to go through the busiest part of town—the marketplace. Stiles had been to the marketplace in Beacon, and it was surprisingly similar to the marketplace in Animas. However, in Animas it was much louder, and the smell was much worse. They traveled through the marketplace, stopping here and there for Stiles to ogle something or play with a toy. Derek didn't say much, but he seemed to be comfortable at least.

Stiles had stopped to look at a stand with differing crystal arrangements when the owner of the stall reached out. Stiles was startled when the clawed hand wrapped around his wrist. Stiles looked up in to the face of the owner. The person was of coyote descent. Their ears were straight and angled towards Stiles. Their eyes were a milky white—alerting Stiles to her blindness.

"You are a child of Beacon," she mumbled, "Yes—a child of Beacon and yet you are a River Child,"

"What are you saying?" Stiles whispered, suddenly intrigued. He never was one to walk away from a mystery.

The coyote woman shook her head, "You are a River Child who smells of the Earth. Why do you smell of Earth, River Child?"

"I was just travelling in the forest—"

"The forest!" The coyote woman hissed. Her grip tightened on Stiles' wrist and he winced as her claws created small crescent moons in his skin, "Darkness lurks within the forest, River Child,"

Stiles' brow furrowed in confusion, "I don't understand,"

"You have already tasted the darkness—just a child when you met the Earth," she muttered. Her voice was starting to sound desperate and fevered, "Beware of the Black Dog, River Child, soon the moon will be full and the blood on his teeth is far beyond dry,"

"Beware of the—I'm sorry?"

"Beware of the Black Dog!" The coyote woman yelled before her speech broke down in to the high pitched wails of an animal. Stiles, frightened, yanked his wrist away from her grasp and stumbled backwards. He landed with a thud against someone who placed their hands on Stiles' shoulders to steady him.

"Stiles, is everything all right?"

Stiles looked behind him and in to the green eyes of Derek Hale. He was frowning slightly and looking down at Stiles.

"What were you doing?" Derek asked, releasing Stiles.

"This woman—she was—" Stiles began.

"Stiles," Derek murmured, "What woman?"

"There in the stand," Stiles turned around to gesture with his hand and froze in his place. The stand where the coyote woman had been was nothing more than a few stacked crates.

Derek shook his head, "Come on, don't you have important business you need to attend to?"

"You're right," Stiles mumbled, slowly tearing his eyes from the place the woman had just been, "Sorry, I'll try not to get lost,"

"Do you need me to hold your hand?" Derek asked, a bemused smile on his lips and one eyebrow raised at Stiles.

Stiles flushed slightly and frowned, "I'm not a child, Derek,"

"The Kid Prince," Derek said thoughtfully, "That wouldn't go over very well, would it?"

Stiles rolled his eyes and shouldered past Derek, "Let's go," he grumbled. Derek couldn't help but to smirk and follow behind Stiles. A few paces forward Stiles looked back to see if Derek was following him. Stiles' light brown eyes slid sideways to look for the woman again, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Stiles glanced once more at Derek before looking forward where he was walking. It had only been for a moment, but Stiles thought that the insignia on Derek's tunic looked like a wolf's head.

_Beware the Black Dog._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Stiles stared up at the palace as it loomed before him. As he had told Derek, the Animas craftsmen were the best in all of the Continents. This was evident in the construction of the Animas Kingdom's palace. The walls were crafted from a brilliant light coloured material, which didn't make it look any less menacing. Stiles was practically blinded by it. Carved in the outer walls were the faces of past rulers. Stiles let his eyes go over each small detail of the architecture. It really was amazing how beautiful the structure was. Stiles swallowed hard and tried to ignore the pit starting to form in is stomach.

Derek nudged Stiles lightly, "You aren't scared, are you?" He teased.

"No—why would I—of course not," Stiles stammered, flailing his arms uselessly. Derek smirked at Stiles. He raised a hand as if he was going to pat the boy's head. But his hand froze in the middle of the motion. It lingered there in the air for a moment before Derek replaced it at his side. Stiles frowned slightly. He had wanted Derek to touch his head—to comfort him. However, it was probably for the better that Derek hadn't touched Stiles. They were supposed to be prince and escort, not—whatever they were.

Stiles bit his lip. Just what were they? Rationally, they should be strangers. But Stiles had been living with Derek for a week and then some. Derek had treated Stiles' wounds. Not to mention there was just that nagging familiarity that Stiles felt when he was around Derek. It was all so confusing. Stiles shook his head and pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Right now he needed to focus on the task at hand. He took another deep breath and walked in to the palace, with Derek close behind him.

"Halt," one of the guards said, stopping the duo, "What is your business here?"

Stiles bowed his head ever so slightly to show respect, "I am here to request an audience with the king on the behalf of the Beacon Kingdom,"

The jaguar man raised an eyebrow at Stiles, "You represent Beacon Kingdom, yet I have never seen you before,"

"During my travels, my companion and I were attacked by bandits," Stiles explained, ignoring the bored look on the guard's face, "Our Seal was lost, however if you examine the hilt of my sword, you will find the proof of my words there," Stiles removed his sheath and handed it with both hands to the guard. The guard took it, glad to have the weapon out of the stranger's hands, and pulled the sword out ever so slightly. Both of the dark eyebrows rose nearly comically on the man.

"This is the Crown Prince's crest," the guard said in awe. He handed the sword back with both hands and bowed deeply to Stiles, "Please forgive my rudeness, your royal highness, I did not recognize you,"

Stiles smiled, hoping it didn't look too bitter, "No harm has been done,"

The guard nodded and swept his hand in a grand motion, "Follow me if you would, I shall take you to the Advisor and see if he can assist you,"

"Thank you," Stiles said, strapping his sword back to his waist. The jaguar guard straightened and looked at Stiles before casting a glance at Derek. The guard's eyes dropped to the golden stitched insignia on Derek's breast.

"Your royal highness," the guard said softly, "Is your—companion—going to be accompanying you during your audience?"

"Of course," Stiles felt his brows pulling together in slight confusion, "For what reason would he not?"

"Sir," the guard began, paused, and then shook his head, "Forgive me once more; you are probably pressed for time. I shall lead you now,"

The guard turned and started to walk in to the palace. Stiles glanced behind him at Derek once before turning and following the jaguar's smooth gait. Stiles watched the man walk and was jealous at the easy grace his movements had. Stiles contemplated copying the stride, but decided against it. His lanky limbs and long legs didn't go well with the words "graceful" or "elegant." After ogling at the way the jaguar guard moved, Stiles turned his gaze up. There were various people in the palace—nobles, courtesans, servants, and others wishing for an audience with the king. They were all watching the trio pass. But there was something about their stares that was strange. Their glances would be fleeting when they looked at Stiles, yet each stared long and hard at the man walking behind him. Most everyone turned and began to speak in hushed whispers as they stared pointedly at Derek. Stiles felt his brow pinch even tighter. Was it because Derek was dressed in all black—a colour that seemed to be missing from the kingdom? Stiles didn't have much time to ponder it, because now the guard was speaking to a housecat chamberlain who scurried off.

"If you would wait in here for the Advisor, your royal highness," the guard instructed, bowing his head once more and leaving the two to wait in the large antechamber. Stiles let out a breath and paced across the room. Derek leaned against a wall and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes following Stiles' movements. After about a minute, Derek let out an irritated huff.

"Will you hold still?" He hissed, "I can practically smell your nerves,"

Stiles stopped abruptly, looking wide-eyed at Derek, "Sorry, I'm just—" he bit his lip slightly, "This is my first time handling something like this. I mean, I've talked to foreign dignitaries and I know the etiquette of this whole thing," he motioned widely with his hand as if to encompass the situation, "But to actually have it presented to me—I mean—it's a little—"

He swallowed hard and tried to push the encroaching panic away. He could feel his breaths speeding up as if his lungs weren't getting enough air. His throat felt like it was closing in on itself. Stiles put his hand on the handle of his sword and squeezed until his hand started to go numb. He felt sweat beading on his forehead and the world closing in around him.

"Stiles," Derek's voice was firm. He pushed off the wall and walked over to where Stiles was standing, "Stiles listen to me," Derek was standing in front of Stiles and reached down with one hand to force the shorter male to look up at him, "Breathe with me Stiles—in and out, in and out," Stiles focused on the sound of Derek's breathing and tried to match his own breathing to it. It took him a moment, but soon his breaths were in sync with Derek's. Stiles fingers uncurled from around his sword and he felt the blood return to his fingers. Slowly his throat loosened and he felt his lungs fully expanding with air. Derek's hand dropped away from Stiles' chin as Stiles let out a shaky, but deep sigh.

"Sorry," Stiles whispered, his voice sounding ragged, "And thanks," He exhaled once more through his mouth and inhaled through his nose. Once more he smelled the smell of the earth after the rain. It calmed him even further—as if it was a part of him that was missing. The smell slid comfortably inside Stiles, giving him extra strength and added stability. It made him feel whole and complete and safe. Stiles looked up at Derek. Every time Stiles had smelled that scent, Derek had been near. Was it Derek that smelled of damp earth? Stiles noticed that Derek was looking at Stiles' lips. But his green eyes quickly darted up to look at Stiles' own light brown eyes. Derek cleared his throat and stepped back from Stiles.

"Keep your wits about you," Derek mumbled, "Some citizens of the Animas Kingdom, such as higher ranked nobles and the royal family, can smell certain emotions. They will probably be able to smell if you're nervous or even hear if you're lying by a skip of your heartbeat. So be honest and don't get too afraid," The corner of his mouth twitched up, "Besides, if anything happens, I'll be in there with you,"

Stiles was quiet for a moment, but then nodded his head vigorously, "Right, of course. I'll be okay—I'm fine now. I can do this," He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. He would do well and make his father proud. It was his duty as the prince and as a son.

A door on the side of the room opened. Stiles and Derek both turned towards the sound. In strode the Royal Advisor to the Animas King, Jarduul. The man was of an owl descent. He was one of the rare types of owls—Northern Hawk Owls—that was active during the daytime rather than the nighttime. Jarduul was said to have an eidetic memory, making him one of the most well versed men on the Western Continent. Few could compare to his wisdom and knowledge on nearly every subject.

Jarduul closed his eyes and dipped down in to a bow at Stiles, "Prince Stilinski, it is an honor to have you in our most humbled Kingdom," he said, his voice a mixture of words and an underlying coo.

Stiles returned the bow and then straightened, "I am honored to be able to visit—your Kingdom is most impressive. I had heard tales of your craftsmen and I have seen their work in Beacon, but it all pales in comparison to the architecture of the buildings here, especially the palace,"

"You are too kind, your royal highness," Jarduul said, a small smile pulling the corners of his beak upwards, "I am informed that you wish for an audience with King Khufu?"

"Yes," Stiles nodded, "I wish to speak with King Khufu about possibly extending the market period of the Animas Kingdom. My father and I understand that most of the Animas Kingdom gets its income from exporting goods to the other Continents. However, with the small period for the ships to get in and out of port in Beacon there is only so much time for goods to be moved between the Kingdoms. We believe it will greatly benefit Animas if we could extend the period of trade so that there is more time to trade more goods.

"If there are fewer chances of ships getting caught in storms, merchants will send larger ships for more goods. My father and I have talked to port masters of the other Continents and they agree on this. They believe that merchants would rather send larger ships in fewer trips, than smaller ships in more trips between the continents. While the larger ships do require more sailors, they don't have to be hired as often. Also, this allows more work for those citizens that can fare well at sea to be available. Advisor Jarduul, what do you think about this?" Stiles asked, trying not to bite at his lip. He had said all that he could, hopefully it would be enough.

Jarduul considered Stiles for a moment, going over the words the young boy had spoken in his head. For a moment, a tense air fell over the room as Jarduul weighed the information. Stiles focused on the sound of Derek's breathing—which he suspected was louder on purpose—and matched his own to it. This allowed for Stiles to remain calm. When it seemed like the very Earth would shatter with anticipation, Jarduul nodded.

"I believe that this has been thought over very carefully," he began, "Do you have any paperwork for these plans?"

"I can send a courier for copies right away, Advisor," Stiles beamed, his eyes alight.

Jarduul forced down a smile, "It is good to see you so enthusiastic about this, Prince Stilinski. Your father has done a good job in raising you,"

Derek thought that Stiles' smiles would break the boy's face in two. Stiles nodded quickly, bowing respectfully to Advisor Jarduul, "I am honored to receive your praise,"

"I am afraid that King Khufu is away. He shall be able to receive an audience with you in two days' time, the day after the full moon. Is this acceptable?" Jarduul asked, his gaze flitting to Derek before looking back at Stiles. The boy hadn't even noticed the shift in attention.

"Yes," Stiles nodded, "My companion and I are staying at the Sleeping Forest Inn. When King Khufu is ready for our audience, a messenger can find us there,"

"Duly noted," Jarduul bowed and motioned for a serving girl to come forward, "I shall contact you two then. Good day gentlemen," Jarduul then turned and left the room. The serving girl, a sweet looking tabby, curtsied deeply.

"I will be escorting you and your companion out, your royal highness," she purred gently.

Derek shut the door to their room at the inn. Stiles unbuckled his sword from his waist and placed it on the table in the room. He flopped down face first on to the bed he had claimed.

"I got an audience with the king," he mumbled in to the hard mattress, "I actually managed to get an audience with the king,"

Derek sat down on his own bed, leaning back against the wall, "Now just make sure you do exactly what you just did with Jarduul with the King, and you should be fine,"

Stiles turned his head so that he was looking at Derek, "Yeah, you're right," his lips quirked up in to a small smile, "Thanks again—for calming me down, I mean,"

Derek stared Stiles down before huffing through his nose, "I couldn't just let you throw everything away—you took an arrow for this,"

"I did, didn't I?" Stiles snorted out a laugh. He turned his face back in to the straw stuffed mattress, "I'm really glad you're here with me," he mumbled.

Derek acted like he hadn't heard that. But of course he had heard Stiles' words. Derek could hear Stiles' heartbeat in such a small room. Derek sat there and listened to Stiles' heartbeat steady and slow as he fell in to an exhausted sleep. Derek stood from his place on his bed and walked over to Stiles. He pushed the boy over on to his back so that he didn't suffocate in his sleep. Stiles let out a mumbled complaint, but did not wake. He curled on to his side and pillowed his head on his hands. Derek pulled the blanket at the foot of the bed over Stiles' body. Derek's fingertips ghosted over the scar in Stiles' hair.

Through the scent of sweat and cloth, Stiles' natural scent slammed against Derek's nose like a stampeding horse. It was so intense Derek nearly stumbled backwards from it. He suddenly felt as if he had been submerged in the river. The crisp, clean scent washed over him and filled his nose and his lungs. Every breath Derek took tasted like Stiles. The smell of water was edged with the smell of all spice and Derek tasted it on his tongue. It set his skin aflame and the wolf inside him howled. It recognized the smell—craved it. His wolf wanted to reach out and touch Stiles, mark him, em claim/em him. His wolf knew what it wanted and that was Stiles.

Derek looked down at his extended hand. It had moved without him even knowing it. His fingernails had elongated slightly and he knew that his eyes were glowing red. He sneered slightly, growling low in his throat. He pulled his hand back and curled it in to a fist at his side. He felt his nails biting in to the skin of his palm. Derek stepped back away from Stiles, the scent lessened. He shut his eyes and forced the wolf back. It was a long moment before he felt his nails recede and the burning behind his eyelids stop. He opened his eyes and avoided looking at Stiles. He turned and strode out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him. It was barely noon and he was already heading to find the nearest tavern. It wasn't even the full moon yet. Derek didn't know if he was more angry or more frightened. He decided on angry, because Derek Hale was never afraid—especially not of his own monsters.

Stiles shivered and pulled the scratchy woolen blanket tighter around him. He blinked his eyes open and sat up. The blanket fell, pooling at his waist. Stiles rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around. The curtains were blowing gently in the twilight breeze. Derek must have opened the window. That would explain why it was so cold in the room. Stiles spotted Derek sitting on his bed. He had his nose in a book, the pages making a soft sound as he turned them. For some reason, this surprised Stiles. He hadn't thought that Derek was stupid or an idiot, but he had never actually given any thought as to whether the man could read or not. Maybe that was because the man preferred to communicate using grunts and frowns rather than actual words. em Use your words Derek, /em Stiles had wanted to say more than once.

"What are you reading?" Stiles asked, removing the blanket from his legs. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed as he pushed his arms in to the air. He felt his shoulders pop and he let out a satisfied breath. Derek looked up at Stiles before closing the book and slipping it in to his pack. Stiles could just barely make out the last few words on the cover: "..._et la bête."_

"Are you hungry?" Derek asked, ignoring the boy's question. Stiles frowned, his expression very similar to a pout. He opened his mouth to ask about the book but before he could speak his stomach let out a low rumble. Derek and Stiles blinked at each other while Stiles felt a flush rise to his cheeks and he turned his gaze downward.

Stiles cleared his throat, "So, food, you were saying?" He asked, looking up at Derek. The corner of Derek's mouth turned up slightly which was a look Stiles was quickly accepting as a smile.

"Come on," Derek said as he stood from his bed, "While you were asleep, I—acquired—some funds," He patted the pouch that was tied to his belt and Stiles noticed with wide eyes that it was much fatter than the last time he had glanced at it. "Also, change your clothes so that you don't get those dirty. You'll wear them tomorrow right? We can have a maid wash them tonight,"

"What exactly do you mean when you say you acquired the funds?" Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek while he unfastened the buttons on his tunic. He turned and looked at the clothes Derek had put out for him to change in to.

Derek shrugged, "Luck was on my side at a hall down the street,"

"Derek!" Stiles hissed, turning away from his clothes, "Do you mean you were gambling?"

Once more Derek shrugged, a small upward motion of his left shoulder. He was now wearing a short sleeved green tunic. This one wasn't as fitted as his black tunic, so he had a belt at his waist. The tunic was open in a V in the front, with a leather string lacing it up. Derek hadn't bothered to tighten and close the V, so the ends of the leather string hung down from the uppermost hole. There was a geometric pattern at the bottom hem of the tunic, done in earthy tones. His trousers were made of a more durable material. They were dyed a medium shade of brown. Derek wore boots that were worn over the bottoms of his trousers. They were a darker brown, probably made from worked leather. They were fastened with another strip of leather, wrapping up the leg of the boot that wound in a crisscross up the boot. Derek's green eyes were made even more brilliant from the browns and greens now on his person.

Derek rolled one of the leather strings hanging from his tunic between his fingers, "It's not as if it's illegal,"

"That's not the point," Stiles shook his head and pulled his tunic over his head. He pushed his arms in to the long and loose sleeves, "You shouldn't take the coins that people have worked hard to earn,"

"They knew that they might lose," Derek muttered, "It was a risk they were taking,"

Stiles' mouth was still pressed in to a tight, disapproving line as he pulled on his trousers. He slipped his foot in to the leather shoes and flexed his toes inside the soft material. He looked down at himself and nodded. The tunic Derek had gotten Stiles was an off-white, unfitted, loose tunic. The sleeves were long and large which allowed for a lot of movement and comfort. On the neckline and hem of the tunic was an organic pattern stitched in to the fabric with reds and browns. His trousers were shorter than normal, stopping at about mid-calf. They were a light brown colour only a few shades lighter than his shoes.

Stiles smirked at Derek and put his hands on his hips, "Not bad, Hale,"

Derek snorted and rolled his eyes. He moved towards the door and held it open for Stiles. Stiles bowed comically and walked out in front of Derek.

"So," Stiles said as Derek closed the door to their room, "I'm guessing you know where we're eating?"

"Of course," Derek muttered as he passed Stiles to go to the front desk. He told the inn keeper about their clothes that needed to be laundered and left a few rather large gold coins with the man. Derek then turned back to Stiles, "We can even afford to eat meat,"

"Yes!" Stiles pumped his fist in to the air in triumph, "Just so long as you don't try to make me eat a rabbit's heart again,"

Derek's expression turned to one of mock offense, "I will have you know that rabbit is considered a delicacy to both the Beacon and Animas Kingdoms,"

"Derek," Stiles looked the taller man in the eye, "It was a em heart/em and it was still em bleeding/em,"

Derek acted as if he considered that, tilting his head upwards and pursing his lips slightly, "I still have yet to see the problem here,"

Stiles laughed and shoved Derek lightly. The two walked down the bustling street and in to the tavern.

Stiles had fallen asleep almost immediately after returning from the tavern. The food had been amazing and Stiles was sure to have his fill of it. He had even talked Derek in to letting him have a draft of ale. Derek had gotten Stiles a honey mead that made his taste buds sing and his head spin ever so slightly. When they returned to the inn, Stiles had bathed and changed in to his clothes that Erica had packed before passing out on the bed. Perhaps it was the mead, or maybe the change of scenery, but Stiles had a strange dream.

Stiles had dreamed he was in the forest. It was a forest unfamiliar to him, not like the area outside of Beacon where he would sometimes accompany Sir Argent for hunts. But Stiles was at a river. He seemed to just be enjoying the water. It was relaxing to feel the cool water slip over his skin. The feeling of comfort was similar to lying in the arms of a lover.

Stiles splashed about for a while before he felt a chill shake his body. It wasn't that the water was too cold for it was evident the season was summer. Stiles looked up, submerging most of his body in the river. His eyes flitted about and scanned the edge of trees that surrounded him. He didn't see anything out there and yet he couldn't get the uneasy feeling to leave him. He frowned and waded his way out of the river.

He stood on the bank for a moment before pushing past the bushes and in to the forest. Twigs and leaves crunched underfoot as he moved in the forest. It was quiet—eerily so. There were no sounds other than Stiles' own movements and the slowly disappearing sound of the river. Stiles didn't even hear any birds in the overhead trees. A breeze blew through the trees, causing a whisper in the canopies. Stiles looked up—had that been a voice? He strained his ears and thought he heard it once more. It was nothing more than a whisper, a small and desperate sound coming from somewhere ahead. Stiles swallowed hard and pressed on.

Stiles pushed through a group of bushes and found himself in a clearing. The grass was short but soft. In the middle of the clearing was a grouping of rocks. Stiles walked over to the rocks. There were three of them, positioned in a triangular pattern. He stood between the two rocks that created the base of the triangle and looked to the middle. A low and dangerous growl sounded from behind Stiles. He whipped around and saw a large creature moving slowly in to the clearing.

The beast was huge, nearly the size of a small horse. It circled Stiles, slowly moving in to the center. Stiles realized it was a dog—or something that may at one point have been a dog. The dog's fur was even darker than the night sky and seemed as if it was dark blue. Its mouth was open in a growl and the long teeth gleamed in the sunlight. Saliva and blood dripped from the sharp canines. Stiles huddled in the center of the three rocks, hoping that they would maybe create some barrier. The dog let out a low noise, the sound vibrating in Stiles' bones.

It wasn't too far from Stiles now, no more than twenty feet. Stiles watched in horror as the dog lowered itself in to a crouched position. Stiles' body was telling him to run—to get away from there as fast as he could. But he was frozen, unable to even breathe. The black dog let out a crippling howl before it pushed off its hind legs and vaulted in the air towards Stiles.

Stiles didn't even have time to scream before the earth underneath him was opening up. Two arms reached out from the crack in the earth and wrapped around Stiles. They pulled him down as the earth swallowed him. The black dog had reached for Stiles, its jowls open in a ferocious snarl.

As Stiles was pulled in to the earth, his eyes were fixed on the dog still snapping at him. In the face of the beast, the eyes glowed brightly. They shone red as if the fires of Hell themselves were reflected there. But as the earth closed once more, the creature shifted for a moment. Suddenly it was Derek at the crack in the earth, reaching out desperately for Stiles.

"Stiles!" He yelled, his voice wracked with emotion. He seemed scared—as if losing Stiles would be the end of the world. Stiles reached out and tried to grab on to Derek, but then the earth closed and darkness enveloped Stiles.

Stiles woke with a great gasp. He panted as he tried to regain his breathing, feeling the burn as his lungs expanded with air. His entire body was coated in sweat. His eyes tried to focus in the room. The curtains had been drawn and the light from the nearly full moon was muted.

Stiles swallowed shakily and ran his hand over his face. Even his body was trembling. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something else. His senses locked on to the sound of Derek's breathing. It was steady and even and Stiles tried to match his breathing to it. After a few minutes, Stiles succeeded in calming down. A dream, he told himself, it was only a dream. His mind drifted to the warning of the coyote woman, em beware the black dog/em. His dream must have been a product of that encounter and the stress of his upcoming audience with the king. Stiles let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself back to sleep.

Derek stared at the wall. He had heard as Stiles' heart nearly thudded out of his chest. He listened as the boy thrashed on his bed, running from a terror brought to him by dreams. He could em smell/em the fear coming from the boy in waves. But the worst part was that during the whole thing, Stiles had been whimpering Derek's name. As if Derek could save Stiles from whatever was frightening him in his dreams.

Derek tasted blood in his mouth. His teeth had lengthened and pierced his lip. It quickly healed and Derek struggled to rein his wolf in. His wolf growled and thrashed. The wolf wanted to throw itself over Stiles and protect him from anything and everything. Derek could have held Stiles until he calmed—stayed with him until he felt safe again.

Derek shook his head quickly, frowning at himself. He couldn't. Stiles was too fragile—too em human/em. In two days, Stiles would meet the king. After that, he would return to his comfortable life in Beacon. There was no room for Derek in his life and the nightmares that he brought with him. Derek felt his stomach knot uncomfortably at the thought. He glared at the wall and forced his eyes shut. Sleep didn't come to him for some time, and even when it did the sleep was not a restful one. Instead, Derek dreamt of fire and crying brown eyes. When he woke, not but a few hours later, his tongue was heavy with the taste of ash and his throat clogged with a lilting bit of all-spice.

Stiles groaned loudly as he woke that morning. His dream still settled uncomfortably in his stomach. But he shook his head to clear it. He stood and twisted so to loosen the muscles in his back. He glanced across the room at Derek's bed and was surprised to find it empty.

Stiles walked over, his bare feet padding soundlessly across the floor. He grinned to himself, not at all surprised that Derek didn't make his bed. Stiles reached out to smooth the blankets. His hand paused when it touched the surface of the bed.

"It's still warm," Stiles mumbled. He smoothed his palm over the mattress, the warmth seeping in to his skin. He smiled softly to himself, a gentle upturn of his lips. Derek must have just gone out.

Stiles pulled the blankets up and smoothed them out. He was bent over close to the surface of the mattress. As he inhaled, Stiles picked up on Derek's scent. It was a deep, musky scent. But underneath the heady smell was the light scent of earth. Stiles inhaled even deeper, his lungs fully expanding. He felt his head swim and his eyes fluttered shut. He let the smell fill him—encase him. His skin tingled and he felt a smile tugging at his lips. Derek was safe and constant. There as something about him, about his scent, that made a warmth spread through Stiles' body. He shivered, feeling the heat pool in his stomach. He swallowed and tried to ignore the rising flush to his skin. He hadn't felt this warming sensation since Lady Lydia had stayed for the winter months. But that would mean he—

Derek cleared his throat, "What are you doing, Stiles?" He asked from the doorway. Stiles startled and straightened quickly.

"Derek," Stiles stammered, his arms flailing wildly, "I was—your bed was—I mean—" Stiles thought his face would catch fire with how hot it felt. Derek raised an eyebrow at him. He had an amused smirk plastered on his face.

Derek raised his arm and Stiles first noticed the covered wicker basket in the notch of the elder man's elbow.

"Breakfast?" He moved to the table in the room and put the basket down, "I also got the clothes for tomorrow's audience with King Khufu,"

"How, um," Stiles picked at a spot on his sleeping shirt, "How long have you been gone?"

Derek shrugged, "Not long, the bakery stall is right outside," He sat down at the table and uncovered the basket, "Maybe ten minutes,"

Stiles pulled out the other chair at the table and nodded. He felt a blush on the tips of his ears. He was thankful that Derek didn't ask anything else as they ate breakfast. Derek had gotten quite the breakfast. The basket was full of freshly baked bread, pastries, small jars of jams, and even a few slices of hot ham. It was delicious and Stiles stuffed himself full.

"Wow," Stiles sighed, sitting back in his chair and patting the small bump of his stomach, "You really know how to treat a guy,"

"They say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Derek said idly, standing from his spot at the table. He walked over and bent down next to his bed. He grabbed his pack and riffled around inside before pulling out a piece of folded parchment.

Derek turned back to Stiles and held the paper up, "Erica sent us with a list," he explained, "Get dressed—we have shopping to do,"

Stiles nodded and quickly pulled on the clothes from the previous night. Derek fastened his coin pouch to his belt and tucked the list in to his belt as well. The two left the room with the sound of the door shutting softly behind them.

Stiles followed behind Derek as they went from stall to stall in order to get all the things Erica requested. They were fairly normal things—cloth, spices, and some trinkets. Stiles ended up carrying the sack with all the things in it. They came to a shop and Derek told Stiles to wait outside.

"I know the owner here," he explained, "He's a hard bargain and it would be better if you stayed out here," With that, Derek walked inside and left Stiles to his own devices.

Stiles sighed and just stood there for a moment. But he couldn't stay still to save his life. He didn't go far. He walked a few stalls down where children were gathering to listen to a storyteller. What harm could it do? If Derek came out he could easily spot Stiles down the street. Not to mention, this was an opportunity for Stiles to learn more Animas lore and legends.

The storyteller was a nicely dressed fox man. He was well groomed and his clothes clean.

"Now," he began, "I will tell you the Tale of Relan and Aquaria," An excited murmur went through the small group of children—apparently this was a favorite.

The fox man grinned and settled in to his story, "Long ago, before anyone walked this earth, the elements were controlled by four great beings—Argo controlled the skies, Relan the earth, Fiyern with fire, and Aquaria oversaw water. They had banded together to create this world and soon hoped to welcome humans and animals and even we the animans here. In the early stages of this world, everything was peaceful—everything was green and full of life. Relan and Aquaria had fallen in love and poured their heart and souls in to each other. Flowers bloomed and grass covered the entire planet. The oceans were created and rivers ran between mountains like children playing tag.

"But there were those beings—the ones who lived in Heaven—who saw the bond Relan and Aquaria had and became jealous. This heavenly being was named Raizo. He too had fallen in love with Aquaria's spirit and beauty. He wanted her all for himself. One day, Raizo came from heaven to talk with Relan. He told Relan of a spring that—if he drank from it—would bless Relan and Aquaria's love for all of time. Relan, blinded by his devotion to Aquaria, believed Raizo and followed the heavenly being to the spring he talked of. Relan knelt by the spring and was mesmerized by how clear and blue the water was. In the pool, he saw Aquaria reflected at him. Consumed by his love, Relan cupped his hands in the pool and brought the liquid to his lips. It was as if he was kissing Aquaria as he drank the water.

"But little did Relan know, Raizo had tricked him. Relan had drunk from the Spring of the Gods—a sacred pool that even the Element Kings were forbidden from drinking from. As punishment, Relan was to lose his physical form and be bound to the earth. Relan was swallowed by the earth and destined to become a part of the earth for eternity. Hearing of her lover's demise, Aquaria ran to the sea. She wept for days and terrible storms raged over the entire ocean. Rivers dried as Aquaria called all the water in the world back to her. Plants began to die and the earth itself was on the verge of crumbling.

"Argo, who was good friends with Aquaria, quickly went to her. Argo told Aquaria of what her despair was doing to the earth. She was destroying the very thing that she and Relan had worked so hard to build and raise and nurture. Aquaria was horrified. She asked Argo if there was anything that could be done. Argo offered her a place in the sky, but she would have to give up her physical form as Relan had. Aquaria quickly agreed and Argo allowed her to become clouds. The clouds covered all of the sky and rain fell to the earth. Once more life returned to the lands and the world became green.

"Aquaria could watch over the earth from her place in the clouds. She could also travel across the lands in the many streams and rivers. Even in his displaced form, Relan loved Aquaria. He gathered her love in lakes and pools. He opened trenches in the oceans so that he could hold even more of her water within his arms. Even the deserts felt Aquaria's love in the form of oasis. But there is so much time in eternity, Aquaria would become lonely and miss her lover. When she did, rain fell from the sky in torrents. The smell of the earth after it has rained is the expression of Relan's love and that he misses her too. He will forever wish to hold her in his arms. But he knows that so long as he has Aquaria's love, he will be able to live on.

"So that is why it rains. Without Aquaria's water, the earth would not be able to survive. Aquaria chose her own suffering so that she could allow her lover to live. Remember kids, when you are swimming in the ocean or a lake, you are being embraced by love. Without rain there would be no earth and if there was no earth we would not have water. Relan and Aquaria, even without physical forms, even at such a distance, exist by and for each other."

The kids clapped and a few threw small copper coins in to the fox man's hat. They then quickly scurried along back to their parents. Stiles stood there in awe. He startled slightly when he felt Derek tap him on the shoulder.

"What did I say about staying still?" He asked.

Stiles blinked, "Sorry, the storyteller—" Stiles gestured with his hand towards the fox man. The fox man stood and dusted his trousers off. He looked up at Stiles and Derek. He smiled at Stiles.

"Did you enjoy the story?" He asked.

Stiles nodded quickly, "Yes! I can't even imagine such an all-encompassing love that would be so powerful,"

"I'm sure one day you'll find someone like that for you, young lad," The fox man said with a bright smile. He then looked at Derek. His smile fell and he nodded his head, lowering his hat to his chest, "My condolences. Even someone as cursed as you did not deserve such a thing," The fox man whispered. He nodded once more to Derek before scampering away. Stiles blinked and looked at Derek.

"Did you know him?" He asked.

Derek's gaze was dark and his lip turned up in a sneer, "No," he growled stiffly.

Stiles frowned, "What did he mean cursed?"

"Drop it, Stiles," Derek's voice was low and held a warning tone.

"Why would he offer you condolences?" Stiles pressed.

"I said drop it!" Derek yelled, his voice sounding more animalistic than human. Stiles flinched and took a step back and away from Derek. Derek glared down at Stiles for a moment before closing his eyes and breathing sharply out his nose.

"Let's go," he grumbled, "There's only a few more things on the list," Stiles nodded in silent compliance and readjusted the pack on his shoulder.

Even as non-vocal as Derek was, he was uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the afternoon. He was on edge and bristly. His bargaining with stall owners was quick and to the point. Stiles thought that the merchants were terrified of Derek and just did whatever he asked so that he wouldn't hurt them. Derek and Stiles finished the shopping.

"You should check at the courier station if any of the things you requested have come in," Derek said as they were walking back to the inn. Stiles, realizing he was being spoken to, looked up at Derek.

"Right, yeah, good idea," he mumbled. He then turned and disappeared in the crowd heading towards the courier station near the inn. Derek watched him go and let out a harsh breath. He pushed a hand through his hair and shook his head. What was he doing? He had come to terms with the murder of his family years ago, or so he had thought. Having a pack—even such a small one as Isaac, Boyd and Erica—had really helped Derek get back to himself.

But perhaps there really was no such thing as "coming back" after your entire family burned and it had been entirely your fault. He had been reassured that there was no way he could have predicted the hunters would use him as bait. But even so, Derek should have seen it coming. There should have been something he could have done.

Derek shook his head and caught sight of the head of short hair that was talking with the pigeon man who manned the courier station. Derek closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He shifted through the entourage of smells and sounds in the busy marketplace until he found the ones he was looking for. He focused on the cleansing scent of the river and listened for Stiles' heartbeat. The steady thrum of the organ had the same effect on Derek as a mother's lullaby did on a newborn. He was calmed and felt like he actually had a purpose—a reason for living. Stiles was his reason.

Derek opened his eyes but continued to listen to Stiles' heartbeat. It was bad that Derek was able to pick out Stiles' heart in a crowd. That meant more than Derek was really ready to handle. He had known ever since that time as kids that Stiles was his mate. He had never felt so strongly connected to his wolf than he had when Stiles was stealing Derek's warmth in the darkness of the wooden shed. But he had never once imagined that Stiles would be the prince of Beacon Kingdom. Never once did Derek think he would be able to meet Stiles again.

But now Derek was faced with reality. Stiles was the next in line for the throne and he was also em human/em. Derek could never even dream of having Stiles all to himself. Stiles had a bigger purpose and a greater calling than to settle down in the forest. There were better things in Stiles' future than emDerek/em. But just being around Derek was corrupting Stiles. That had been evident from the incident this morning when Derek returned from getting breakfast. Derek had smelled it even before he had entered the room—Stiles' hazy arousal. Derek's natural scent had caused that reaction in Stiles, magnified by the impending full moon. Just the fact that Stiles could smell Derek's natural scent strengthened the truth of them being mates. It drove the wolf in Derek wild with want and a need to possess Stiles.

"The pigeon man said that they received a pigeon—uh bird—this morning saying that a messenger was being sent with the papers. He should be here tomorrow by the time of our audience," Stiles said, sliding back in to his place next to Derek. Derek nodded, startled slightly that he had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed Stiles' return.

Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles, "Anything else?"

A slightly embarrassed smile curled Stiles' lips, "My father says that he's proud of me," he chuckled, "Although he says that he wants to have a long talk about why it took me so long to contact him,"

Derek nodded and struggled to beat back the instinct to claim Stiles right there. The boy smelled of pride and love and it was em suffocating /em.

"What are you going to tell him?" Derek asked, hoping his voice sounded normal.

Stiles shrugged, "I met with some complications, but a grumpy knight in shining armor saved me," he muttered, eyes flicking up to look at Derek.

Derek was silent for a long moment before he cleared his throat.

"We should get something to eat and then check on the horses," he said after a moment.

"I am starting to get hungry," Stiles agreed with a nod of his head. Derek turned and led Stiles away from the market and towards a nearby tavern. But even with his back to Stiles, Derek could hear the excited heartbeat as clearly as if he had his ear pressed flush against Stiles' chest.

They ate at the Boar's Head. It as a cozy place and brewed its own spirits. Derek allowed Stiles to have another honey mead, but refused anything stronger. This caused some whining from Stiles, who insisted it would be fine since at the castle he always had wine at supper. But Derek was just going to have none of that. He had a hard enough time handling Stiles normally; Derek couldn't even imagine a Stiles without his inhibitions. Well, actually, Derek could imagine it perfectly which made his wolf metaphorically wage its tail. Derek quickly stamped that down and bit—albeit more viciously than needed—in to his leg of lamb.

They finished their meal but didn't leave immediately after. Derek moved a few tables over where some men had gathered and joined their game of cards. Stiles ended up nursing a second honey mead as he talked to some of he girls that worked there. They were lemur decent and very cute. Stiles found himself smiling with them and being flirted with. He blushed a few times at some of their comments. One of the particularly flirty girls sat down across from Stiles. She put her chin in her hands and batted her eyes at him.

"So," she began, "You obviously aren't from around here. Are you from Beacon?"

Stiles nodded, "Yeah,"

"What brings you to our side of the forest?"

"Business," he explained.

She pouted, "You make it sound so dull," Her eyes twinkled slightly and Stiles absently noticed that her eyes were green like Derek's.

"What's your name, cutie?" She asked.

"Uh," Stiles stammered, "It's Stiles,"

"Interesting," she purred, "My name is Adeline—but everyone calls me Addy,"

"Nice to meet you Addy," Stiles said with a smile as he sipped from his mug.

"So Stiles," she said sweetly, "Who's the dark and mysterious guy who's with you?"

Stiles blinked and looked over his shoulder, "Do you mean Derek?"

Addy shrugged, "Are you two together?"

"What?" Stiles sputtered, nearly choking on his own spit, "Together? You mean like lovers?"

"Yeah," she said, "It isn't at all uncommon in Animas. So are you," her words trailed off.

Stiles felt his face flush all the way down his neck and even to the tips of his ears.

"What would make you say that?" He mumbled.

"Well," she said with a sly smile, "Because he keeps looking over here and giving me dirty looks when he thinks I'm not looking,"

"Oh," Stiles whispered, "No, we're just companions,"

Addy smiled brilliantly at him, "Good, so anyway Stiles—"

Stiles and Derek exited the Boar's Head a few hours later. Stiles had had his ears chatted off by Addy and a few of her friends. Derek was many silver coins and even a gold coin or two richer. Derek didn't ask about Addy or any of the other serving girls, although he wanted to. His wolf had wanted to snarl and show his teeth at those girls—make them understand that Stiles was emhis/em.

"So," Stiles said, interrupting Derek's thoughts, "Addy was telling me that there's a play or something tonight at a local theater. It's in a couple of hours—wow we were in there for a long time—so I was wondering if you wanted to go see it?" He asked, looking at Derek.

Stiles blushed, "I mean—if you want. I don't know if you like those kinds of things. I've never actually been or anything, so I wouldn't know if it's any good or fun,"

"You've never been to a play?" Derek asked.

"No," Stiles shrugged, "It was too dangerous,"

Derek looked at Stiles for a long time before sighing, "What is it called?"

Stiles' eyes lit up and he smiled, "It's called emThe Play of The Weather/em by someone named John Heywood,"

"Yeah, we can go see it," Derek conceded.

"Great!" Stiles exclaimed, "Addy told me where the play house is and everything. It's not too far from here—just a little ways down—"

"Stiles," Derek mumbled, trying to suppress his grin.

"Sorry," the boy chuckled, "Going to quiet down now," But even if his voice stopped, Derek could practically feel Stiles vibrate with excitement. They walked down the street, their arms brushing every now and then.

"I can't believe it," Stiles gushed as they walked back to the inn that night, "That was so much fun. I'm going to have to convince my father to have more players in the palace,"

Derek rolled his eyes, "That wasn't even categorized as a comedy play,"

"Yeah yeah," Stiles murmured, "It was a play about morality and how everyone is equal and no one is more deserving," Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek, "Way to take the fun out of things,"

"I'm a realist," Derek shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He actually felt content for the first time in a long time. Stiles had sat close to Derek, filling the man's senses with his scent and just his presence. The sun had gone down just before the play began and so now the streets were filled with the silver light of the full moon. Derek felt the wolf pacing just below the surface. The moon tugged at him and with the addition of Stiles, the instinct was intensified. But Derek refused to let himself lose control.

When they returned to their room, Stiles laid down on his bed. He smiled absently at the ceiling.

"Today has been an amazing day," he said to the air. He let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes.

Derek moved about the room, "Are you hungry?" There wasn't a response. Derek looked up and saw Stiles' chest rising and falling slowly. The prince had fallen asleep. He must have been exhausted. Derek smirked and knelt down at the side of Stiles' bed. Derek rested his arms on the edge of the mattress and put his head on his arms. He closed his eyes and listened to Stiles' steady heartbeat. It filled Derek's senses and he could feel his heart beat in sync with it.

The wolf growled slightly and Derek's eyes opened suddenly. He stood and backed away from Stiles. Derek looked down at his hands and saw his fingernails had lengthened. He felt his teeth pushing past his gums and his eyes began to burn dully as they did when they turned red. Derek shook his head and brought himself back under control. He just needed to get away from Stiles for a little while. His scent was becoming too much for Derek. So Derek left and went to the tavern down the road.

Stiles opened his eyes when he heard the door opening. When had he fallen asleep? He sat up and rubbed at his eyes groggily.

"Derek?" He mumbled, "Is that you?" There wasn't a response, but Stiles heard footsteps approaching him. Stiles blinked hard and tried to focus his eyes in the light of the moon. He didn't know what time it was, but the moon was high in the sky.

"What are you doing getting in so late?" Stiles asked, looking at the person in the room. He knew it was Derek—he smelled the earth on him. Stiles yawned, his mouth stretching wide. He lay back down and sighed.

"You should go to bed," he yawned again.

What happened next surprised Stiles. He felt his mattress dip as Derek placed a hand on it. Stiles frowned and opened his eyes. Derek was above him and the scent of damp soil filled Stiles' nose. He tasted the iron on his tongue.

"Derek," Stiles grumbled, "Quit messing with me and go to sleep," he turned on his side and faced the wall. Stiles let out a surprised yelp when he felt hot lips brush against the back of his neck.

"Derek?" Stiles hissed, turning on to his back to look up at Derek. Derek's hands were caging Stiles' head and his legs were trapped between Derek's knees. Derek leaned down and pressed his lips just under Stiles' ear. The man's stubble scratched against Stiles' skin.

"Derek—stop," Stiles brought his hands up to push Derek away. But Derek grabbed both of Stiles' wrists and pushed his arms above his head on the mattress. His grip was like a hot iron, scalding Stiles' skin. Stiles swallowed, Derek licking at his bobbing Adam's apple.

Derek continued to kiss, and bite, and rub against Stiles' neck and his collarbone. Stiles was becoming dizzy. His lungs and mouth were filled with Derek's scent. His skin was hot wherever Derek touched him. Stiles was having trouble with coherent thoughts. He could only think about Derek touching him, Derek kissing him, Derek emclaiming/em him. Stiles shuddered when Derek placed his free hand across Stiles' throat. It wasn't a threatening touch, but the slight pressure made Stiles gasp slightly. A growl rumbled low in Derek's throat and suddenly his lips were crushed against Stiles.

The kiss was forceful and full of desire. Derek's slightly chapped lips were causing heat and electricity to spread through Stiles' body. Derek used his hand on Stiles' throat to tilt his head up to get a better angle at the kiss. Stiles was reciprocating as best he could, but Derek was kissing him breathless. When Derek gently bit down on Stiles' lower lip, Stiles let out a low moan. Derek's chest rumbled with an appreciative growl and his hand moved from Stiles' throat.

Derek tore his mouth away from Stiles' only to latch on to the skin of his neck and suck hard at the flesh there. Stiles keened slightly, turning his head to allow Derek easier access to his skin. Stiles gasped when he felt Derek's calloused fingers dip in to his trousers. The younger male bit his bottom lip, trying to clear his head of the haze that had gathered.

"Derek—" Stiles' voice was cut off with a moan when Derek's fingers wrapped deftly around Stiles' heat. Stiles arched off the bed at the touch when Derek began to move his hand. When he tried to speak again, Derek stopped him with another kiss. This kiss was deep and desperate. Stiles was panting and his body was on fire. Derek's hand and lips were stimulating Stiles beyond his comprehension. Just as he was about to lose it, Derek removed his hand. Stiles whined at the loss, but soon he was throwing his head back with a choked moan as Derek's hand was replaced with the wet heat of his mouth.

Derek put his hands on Stiles' hips to hold him down. His fingernails dug in to the flesh there, leaving small crescents. Stiles pushed his hands in to Derek's hair and he held on. Derek licked at Stiles' slit, savoring the taste of the pre-come that had gathered there. Stiles shuddered as Derek lowered his mouth to completely take Stiles between his lips. Stiles was no match for the green-eyed male. Soon he was moaning and gasping and barreling over the edge. White hot pleasure shot through Stiles as his orgasm hit. He had tried to pull Derek off him, but the male stubbornly kept his lips tightly wrapped around Stiles.

Stiles' heart thundered against his chest. Derek came off him with a lewd pop. Stiles looked down at Derek with unfocused eyes. Derek licked his lips and then kissed the insides of Stiles' thighs. Stiles shivered, sensitive just after his orgasm. His hands tugged gently at Derek's hair and Derek complied. He raised and once more cemented his lips to Stiles'. This kiss was slow and languid, with a certain lazy fluidity. Stiles cupped Derek's face in his hands as he returned the kiss.

"Derek," Stiles murmured, "What—" he opened his eyes and looked up. Derek had stopped kissing him and his body had stiffened. Stiles blinked at him. Derek looked as if he had just woken up from a dream. His lips were parted and glistened in the moonlight. But his eyes were wide with—terror?

Derek scrambled away from Stiles. He nearly tripped over himself as he backed away from Stiles. Confused, Stiles sat up and frowned at Derek.

"Derek?" Stiles tried to hide the panic in his voice.

"Stiles—I—oh god—" Derek shook his head and all but ran to the door.

"Derek! Wait!" Stiles yelled. But the door shut with a harsh slam and Derek was gone. Stiles blinked in the darkness, the smell of his arousal and the earth heavy in the air. He felt dread pooling in his stomach, replacing the pleasure that had just been humming in his veins. What had just happened? Stiles could just barely make out the sound of a wolf howling at the moon somewhere in the distance.


	7. Chapter 7

Little Red Prince

When Stiles woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that Derek hadn't returned to the room. The second thing that Stiles realized was that he felt hungrier than he ever had before. He sat up slowly and rubbed at his eyes. They hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon hours before they went to the playhouse. They hadn't gotten dinner afterwards before returning to the inn. Stiles had fallen asleep only to be awoken by Derek. Stiles felt his face instantly heat as his brain wrapped around what had happened last night. He and Derek had—he shook his head quickly. Even now, his skin felt hot where Derek had touched him. Stiles lifted his hand and touched his lips gently. They were tender under his touch and he was pretty sure they might still be a little swollen.

But just what the heck had happened last night? Derek came in the middle of the night under the cover of the full moon and kissed Stiles—caused a heat to spread across his skin. He had coaxed pleasure out from deep inside of Stiles' body with a steady hand. Then, as if waking from a dream, had turned and high-tailed it out of there without even so much as a second glance. What had that been all about? Sure, Stiles had been surprised—insanely so—but he wasn't angry. In fact, what had happened last night pretty much cemented Stiles' suspicions that his feelings for Derek were far beyond those of simple companionship. But Derek's reaction to it all made Stiles think that it had just been a drunken tryst on the elder man's part. Stiles frowned. Derek hadn't tasted of alcohol and he was pretty sure he got a good taste when Derek had pushed his tongue—

Stiles decidedly did not want to think about Derek's tongue. Not in his mouth, not across his skin, not swirling around his—

Stiles let out an aggravated huff and pushed a hand through his short hair. He heard the latch of the door click and looked up to see Derek enter the room. Derek shut the door and finally looked up. Stiles and Derek stared at each other for what seemed like eternity. Neither of them said anything and Stiles was pretty sure he had stopped breathing at some point. Eventually, Derek cleared his throat and placed a covered wicker basket on the table.

"Breakfast," he said softly. He pulled at the collars of his tunic. Stiles noted that Derek was wearing his black clothing from when they had first left his cottage in the middle of the forest.

"Thanks," Stiles replied just as quietly. He stood up, popping his back as he stood. He pushed his arms in to the air and felt his tunic ride up to expose a slim line of his stomach. When he looked back up, Stiles caught Derek staring at the hem of his tunic before looking quickly back at Stiles.

"I'll have some water drawn," Derek mumbled, "So when you finish eating take a bath and get ready. Your audience is in two hours,"

Derek moved to his bed and pulled his sack out from under it. He reached in and felt around for a moment before pulling the small and beaten book from the other day out. After tucking the leather bound tome under his arm, Derek walked out of the room and out the door.

Stiles sighed and uncovered the basket. He reached in for a blueberry filled tart and took a bite. He chewed slowly and stared at the wall. So they weren't going to talk about it. He swallowed and popped the rest of the tart in to his mouth. He decided resolutely that they were going to talk about what had happened last night. Stiles couldn't let something like this go unresolved. Because he just had so many questions and it was a wonder that Stiles wasn't going mad with curiosity of it all. He ate his fill and grabbed his clothes for the day. He had an audience with the king and he would be dammed to screw it all up now.

Stiles knelt on one knee before King Khufu.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, your majesty," Stiles said with his head bowed.

Khufu made a gesture with his hand, "Please," he said, "There is no need to be so formal. Rise, Prince Stilinski,"

With a gentle smile, Stiles stood back on his feet. He heard a shuffle as Derek stood as well from his position behind Stiles. Despite everything that had happened and all the questions that had yet to be answered, Stiles was immensely grateful that Derek was there with him.

"Now," Khufu's voice brought Stiles back to the task at hand, "What exactly is the nature for you visit, Little Red Prince?" There were gentle snickers through the throne room at the nickname.

Stiles schooled the frown from his face. He knew the King was testing him. Stiles was still a "Shadow Prince" that no one knew about. He had yet to prove—or humiliate—himself to any of the courts. Now was his chance to walk out of the shadows and claim his rightful place among the giants.

"Your majesty, "Stiles began, his voice demanding attention, "I have come to discuss with you about extending the market period," with that, he launched in to his argument.

He supplemented his opinions with the facts and statements outlined in the papers that had been delivered that very morning. King Khufu nodded, following Stiles easily. He asked questions which Stiles promptly answered. Every now and then, Khufu would lean sideways and whisper to Jarduul who was also listening with rapt attention. After what seemed like days, Stiles had said everything he could. He stood there in the middle of the throne room, all eyes on him and the king. The king spoke quietly with Jarduul, gesturing to the papers and even Stiles every now and then. Stiles swallowed hard and stamped down his nervousness. He looked up when King Khufu cleared his throat.

"You have presented some very interesting information," he stated, "I will talk to my council about this,"

Stiles nodded, trying not to let his face fall, "Of course your majesty,"

"However," Khufu stopped him, "I am more than convinced that this is a good thing and we will indeed extend our market period,"

This time Stiles couldn't stop the smile that came to his face, "Really?" He asked, "Do you really mean that?"

"Of course. This is a brilliant plan and I agree that it will greatly benefit both kingdoms,"

"That's fantastic," Stiles let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "My father will be very pleased to hear that,"

"Yes, I'm sure," King Khufu murmured, "Now, we must talk about something other than business. I have been curious about it this entire time,"

Stiles felt his eyebrows furrowing, "What is it, your majesty?"

"How exactly is it that one of such royal blood as yourself came to be traveling with a Shifter?" Khufu asked, gesturing his pawhand at Derek. Stiles blinked and turned to look at Derek. Derek did not look at Stiles, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. His jaw was tense as if he were clenching it together tightly.

"I fled to his land when my carriage was attacked by bandits," Stiles said as he faced the king once more, "He tended to my wounds, sheltered me while I healed, and was kind enough to see to me while I traveled here," Stiles paused and frowned.

"Your majesty, if I may, why do you give him the title of Shifter? This is not the first time I have heard the term on my journey, but I do not understand it," Stiles mumbled, gaze looking back at Derek.

King Khufu laughed, causing Stiles to look back at him.

"Are you telling me you do not know of his cursed blood? How is it that you survived the full moon, Little Red Prince?" He laughed again, a deep and full-bodied sound. When Stiles made no reply, Khufu's laughter stopped.

"You really have no idea about the history of this man or his blood?" He asked in a hushed tone. Stiles simply frowned deeper.

"Your companion, Little Red," Khufu began, "Come from a bloodline that is even older than that of the royal families. It is said that his family was borne of the earth itself—from rocks came the ancient wolves,"

"Wolves?" Stiles interrupted. He looked at Derek again, who was now looking up at Stiles. His green eyes sparkled with some emotion that Stiles couldn't place.

"I understand your confusion," Khufu sighed, "The man before you is neither man nor animal. His is not even so lucky as to be like one of us. He is not fully human or animal. He is a Shifter—one who walks the line of gods and abominations,"

Stiles flinched at the word and gritted his teeth, "I don't understand," he forced out.

"Look around you boy," Khufu instructed with a grand sweep of his arms, "Do you see even an inkling of black here or anywhere for that matter?"

"No," Stiles answered slowly.

"The reason for that is to mark those who wear the colour as different, misfits even. Little Red Prince, your companion will never be accepted no matter where he goes,"

"But why not?" Stiles felt his anger building. These people didn't even know Derek—how could they condemn him so fully?

"You speak as if he's done terrible things, like he deserves what has been forced upon him. He never asked for this fate yet you act as if his actions have warranted his treatment. As far as I can tell his only sin is existing," Stiles breathed harshly out of his nose.

"That man is a mutation of nature. He should never have existed in the first place. His entire being is a monstrosity—"

"Derek isn't a monster!" Stiles yelled, his body shaking with rage. A hand was placed on Stiles' shoulder and the boy wheeled around to glare at who was touching him.

"Stiles," Derek whispered, "That's enough,"

Stiles felt the anger slip from him. He searched Derek's green eyes and was finally able to place the emotion—sadness.

"But Derek—"

"Derek shook his head, "It's fine. This is my burden to bare, not yours," He gave the boy a small squeeze on his shoulder. This calmed Stiles even more and he reveled in the comfort of the elder male's touch.

"Now emthis/em is most intriguing," Khufu stated, Stiles and Derek both starting slightly as if forgetting Khufu was in the room at all.

"I had been wondering just how our Little Red Prince had survived the night. But I think I understand it now," Khufu's lips rose in a smirk, a fang peeking out.

"He's your mate, isn't he?"

Derek's jaw tightened once again and a low growl started in his throat. Khufu laughed again, doubling over in his throne.

"Oh how wonderfully awful! First your entire family is killed and now you're mated with a human? The Crown Prince of Beacon at that even!" Khufu's laughter increased and he wiped tears from his eyes.

"The one person in the world meant just for you, and you can never even emthink/em of having him. How terrible is that Derek? You couldn't save your family and now you will always be alone,"

Derek snarled and bared his teeth at Khufu, but it held no real threat. He tore his gaze from Khufu's and looked down at the floor. He removed his hand from its place on Stiles' shoulder and he turned away from the boy.

"Derek?" Stiles tried softly. But there was no acknowledgement. Stiles tried to swallow down the nausea that was quickly rising.

"Derek," Stiles tried again, "What does he mean? Mates?"

"I almost pity you, Little Red," Khufu sighed, "A mate is someone chosen by the gods before birth. Your people call them "soul mates." A mate for a Shifter is someone who has been chosen by both parts—the man and the wolf. However, wolves mate for life,"

Stiles tried to process it all. So much information had been thrown at him at once. How was he supposed to process it all?

"Prince Stilinski," Khufu called as he rose, "You are dismissed. I will send word of the market period once I meet with my council. I thank you for bringing such entertainment to my throne room," With that, Khufu left the room with the gentle sounds of his cape trailing behind him.

Stiles was frozen in place until the same tabby from the other day appeared in his line of sight.

"Your highness," she whispered, "I'll escort you out," her eyes were apologetic. Stiles nodded mechanically and followed behind her. He was barely aware of the footsteps following quietly behind him.

Stiles walked in to their room at the inn and sat down on the edge of the bed. Derek entered not long after he did and closed the door softly. Stiles had his head in his hands.

"Are you going to explain any of what just happened to me?" Stiles hissed, looking up at Derek, "Are you going to tell me anything?"

Derek was looking anywhere but at Stiles.

Stiles let out an exasperated breath, "Derek, I just—would you—I'm so confused right now. Khufu said so many things and I can't make heads or tails of any of it," Stiles dropped his hands to rest on his thighs. His eyes searched Derek's face.

"I need you to tell me everything," Stiles whispered, "Derek please,"

Derek's gaze turned to Stiles at that. Stiles inhaled sharply because Derek looked absolutely torn. His mouth was curled down at the edges and his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. It was a look of such confliction that Stiles had never seen before.

"I can't," Derek said after a moment. Stiles thought his heart would fall straight through his stomach. Derek shook his head and looked back up at Stiles, "I'd have to show you,"

Stiles stood up and moved to stand in front of Derek, "Then show me,"

Derek's mouth tightened in to a little line. He turned away from Stiles and opened the door. He held it open, as if waiting for Stiles to follow. Stiles quickly picked up the hint and pattered after Derek.

They walked out of Animas and in to the forest. Stiles followed behind Derek quietly. It was hard for him to not ask questions. But he knew that Derek was going to tell him everything. Or at least a good portion of what the heck was going on. It wasn't long before the trees thinned and the two entered in to a clearing. Stiles sucked in a breath as he took in the clearing. In the middle were three rocks that created a triangular formation. It was the same as from Stiles' dream.

"Derek, why," he began.

Derek placed his hand on one of the stones, "My father used to bring me out here, especially when I was still young. It was our special place where we could get away from my sister or my mother or anyone really. It would be just me and him," Derek removed his hand from the stone and turned to face Stiles.

"What Khufu said is correct. My family can be traced back even further than the royal family itself. There are many stories about how my kind came to be. It's even a little hazy in the family history as to our existence. What is certain, however, is that we are not human—not entirely at least,"

Derek sighed and looked up to the sky, "The story is that one of the first wolves, one of the ancient wolves, fell in love with a human farmer's daughter. He loved her so dearly he asked to be human if only for one night a year in order to see her. The earth god, Relan, felt pity for the wolf having been torn from his love. So he granted the wolf's wish and was even so generous as to let him be human for all of his days—except one. He had to return to his true form on the full moon,"

"So then," Stiles tried but his brain was still trying to keep up. He shook his head and made a "continue" motion with his hands at Derek.

"The wolf was able to wed the human girl he loved. They had a life together—built their own home, had a successful crop, and even had a child," Derek frowned, "The child is said to have been half wolf and half human. He was able to shift at will between forms. We are said to have descended from that one love."

"But why would you be branded as outcasts?" Stiles asked.

"Generations after the mixed blood was discovered and people didn't understand it. As all things not understood, the half-bloods were feared and seen as monsters. They were hunted and killed because people feared that they would be killed themselves,"

"What?" Stiles hissed, "That doesn't make sense! They weren't doing any harm!"

Derek shrugged, "Shifters are an unknown. Even the history of our blood is just a bedtime story. It has never been proven and probably never will be."

Stiles bit his lip, "Khufu said something about your family," Stiles began softly.

Derek's eyes flashed red and he closed them tightly, "They were hunted," he ground out.

"By who?"

Derek turned his gaze back on to Stiles, "By the Argents,"

"The Argents—" Stiles inhaled sharply, "Why? What reason—"

"It was believed that my people had gone feral and were attacking travelers in the woods. It had been bandits really, making it look like animal attacks to keep suspicion from them. But we weren't able to defend ourselves. I had been out gathering herbs for my mother when the attack happened. When I returned home, the entire house was aflame," Derek's voice wasn't much more than a growl by that point.

"Then they—your family—they all—"

"I'm the only one that survived that night, Stiles," Derek said softly.

Stiles mouth hung open uselessly and he was at a loss for words. He felt sickness pooling in his stomach.

"But the Argents have a code," Stiles began, "They don't kill unless there is no reasonable doubt. They should have—"

"They would have," Derek interrupted, "It was just one Argent and a few accomplices. This one felt that the code was outdated and that all Shifters were monsters by nature. They deserved no mercy and were only good for pelts in the winters,"

Stiles shook his head, his fists clenching tightly at his side, "I hate them," he hissed out between his teeth, "I hate the people who hurt you—who took everything away from you," He felt the rage bubble out from inside him. It spilled over in the form of warm and salty tears.

Stiles felt rough fingers slide under his chin and tilt his face up.

"Stiles," Derek murmured, "Look at me,"

The male obeyed and opened his eyes to look in to Derek's. Derek's green eyes were softened and steady as he looked at Stiles.

"Don't let my darkness ruin you," Derek whispered. His thumb brushed gently underneath Stiles' eye and wiped at the tears on his cheeks. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the skin of Stiles' forehead. Stiles choked back a sob. The gesture was so protective and comforting it nearly broke him apart. He pulled his face from Derek's grasp and wrapped his arms tight around the taller male. Even though he was shaking slightly, Stiles held Derek tight in his embrace. Stiles pressed his face in to Derek's chest and inhaled deeply. The scent of the earth filled his senses and stilled his nerves.

"Will you show me?" Stiles breathed against Derek's body.

"If you want," Derek mumbled, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight in to Stiles.

Stiles knew he should be afraid—like something about this should set off his danger sensors—but he wanted to know everything about Derek. He wanted to be able to accept every part of Derek—be it man or wolf. So he nodded minutely.

Derek took a breath and pulled out of Stiles' arms, "Okay," he then began to undress. Stiles averted his eyes, feeling a blush creep up on his cheeks. But when he heard the shuffle of fabric being dropped to the ground, he looked back up. He gasped as he watched a ripple go across all of Derek's body.

The sound of bones rearranging nearly had Stiles losing his breakfast. But it didn't seem to be painful, at least not from what Stiles could tell. Derek's tall form slowly crouched and bent over. Fur spread out across his skin like fire and soon covered every part of him. One moment Stiles was staring at Derek and the next he was staring at a full grown wolf. It had happened quickly enough that Stiles was unsure of his own eyes and yet he understood everything that had just happened in front of him.

The wolf shook itself out and shook its head a few extra times. It turned its head and looked right at Stiles with a cognition that was not that of an animal's. Its eyes were the colour of red that Stiles had never seen before. But the wolf shook its head once more and the eyes looking at Stiles were without a doubt Derek's brilliant green eyes.

Stiles dropped to his knees and held his hand out. He ignored the gentle tremors that shot down his arm and caused his hand to shake. The wolf moved towards Stiles, slowly as if it was afraid it would startle Stiles. The animal was afraid it would scare the human, which was a thought that—at any other time—would cause Stiles to laugh. The wolf bumped its muzzle against the palm of Stiles' hand. It then pushed its face in to Stiles' touch. Stiles pushed his hand to the top of the wolf's head and scratched at the dark grey fur just behind its ears. The wolf tilted its head in to the touch and huffed appreciatively. The wolf sat back on its haunches, its tail wrapping around to cover its paws.

Stiles moved his other hand up and cupped the wolf's face in his hands. Stiles stared hard at the wolf and the green eyes looked apprehensively back at him. Swallowing the hard lump in his throat, Stiles shifted forward. He wrapped his arms around the Derek's neck and buried his face in his soft fur. He felt hot tears running down his face once again.

"You're not a monster," Stiles said between sobs, "You're not a monster," he repeated.


	8. Chapter 8

Little Red Prince

Derek and Stiles returned to the inn after Derek had shifted back and put his clothes on. As they walked, Stiles stayed closed to Derek. He kept brushing his hand against Derek's, as if to remind himself that the man was real and actually standing next to him. Just before they reached the wall of Animas, Derek took Stiles' hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. It was like he knew what Stiles was thinking. The touch, while small, left a blossoming heat in the pool of Stiles stomach that was comforting to him.

"I think we should probably be heading back," Derek said after they entered their room. Stiles blinked and looked up at Derek. He hadn't specified exactly where they were going to return to. Stiles hoped that he could stay with Derek for at least a little longer.

"Yeah," Stiles nodded, "You're right. We've been here long enough," The two then began to pack in a silence that wasn't at all stifling.

The forest was full of sounds that surrounded them as they travelled. Stiles had felt the stares of the Animas people more fully when they had been leaving. But whether or not they were looking at him or Derek, Stiles wasn't entirely sure. People were bound to know who he was soon after his audience with King Khufu. If he was given the title of Prince of Beacon Kingdom or the Mate of the Shifter—well, Stiles wasn't exactly sure which he was ready to take on.

"Stiles?" Derek asked from his mount to the right of Stiles. The sudden noise startled Stiles and he looked up at Derek with wide eyes.

"What?" He said, hoping his voice was steadier than he felt.

"You haven't said a word since we left the inn," Derek mumbled, "Are you all right?"

"Oh," Stiles paused, "Yes. I'm fine. It's just," his voice trailed off.

"It's just?" Derek prompted.

Stiles chewed on his lower lip for a moment, "I've been thinking about a few things,"

Derek was silent, which Stiles took as encouragement for him to continue.

"The coyote woman in the market told me to "Beware the Black Dog." I thought that had to do with you, because you know, you wore all black and the insignia on your tunic looked like a dog's head," Stiles shrugged, "Then I had a dream that a black dog was chasing me and I was just so scared. But then you were the black dog and I think you were trying to save me from something else?"

Derek blinked at Stiles. Stiles sighed and pushed a hand up through his hair.

"I don't know," he muttered, "I don't normally put that much in to dreams. So maybe I shouldn't worry too much about this one either. Besides, your wolf is dark grey, not black,"

Derek nodded, "I wouldn't worry about what the coyote woman said. Old superstition like that should usually be disregarded,"

"Oh, yeah," Stiles replied.

After a moment, Derek spoke up, "That's not all, is it?"

"Well,"

"The silence is more annoying than the questions," Derek said with slight humor in his tone, "Just say whatever you're thinking about,"

"Okay, um," Stiles hesitated,"

"Stiles," Derek's voice was a low, warning growl.

"I've been thinking about what Khufu said about mates—how he said I'm your mate," Stiles spat out like the words were fire.

The silence stretched between them and Stiles risked a glance at Derek. He inhaled sharply when he found Derek looking at him. His green eyes were gentle and looked almost a little hurt. But he cleared his throat and looked forward once more.

"Mates are those that have been chosen by the gods to be the perfect match. People search all over the Continents to find their mates,"

"Okay," Stiles said slowly, "How do they do that?"

"Through scent mostly," Derek said with a shrug, "But sometimes there are pre-bond markings that the mates share,"

Stiles blinked and searched his brain. The only markings on his body were his moles. He knew that Derek didn't have moles all over him—or at least on the skin that he'd seen over the past few days.

"Right, so, scent," Stiles coughed, "How does that work? Do they smell the same?"

Derek shook his head, "No. Mates don't share the same scent, but their natural scents usually compliment the other. For instance, one mate can have the natural scent of warm caramel and the other would have the scent of green apples. Another example would be the smell of brown sugar and warm pastry bread with the mate having a scent of cherries,"

"Caramel covered apples and cherry pie," Stiles mused quietly, "Do all natural scents remind me of baking with my mother or do you just have a hidden sweet tooth and are expressing it subconsciously through examples of mate scents?"

Derek cleared his throat, "Those were just the first to come to mind,"

"Then," Stiles began to worry his lower lip again, "What is my natural scent?"

Derek glanced at Stiles once again, "The river and rain, with a hint of all-spice,"

"You smell like the earth just after it's rained," Stiles said slowly, the words feeling heavy in his chest. Derek stared openly at Stiles, "I'm not supposed to know that, am I?" Stiles asked.

"Well, no," Derek answered, "But that just proves that you are my mate," he said the last word after a moment of speculation, "Humans normally don't have the strong enough sense of smell to be able to pick out a natural scent. That is unless they—"

"—are mates," Stiles finished. Derek nodded.

"Could you tell? Right away I mean?"

"No," Derek sighed, "But a few days after you arrived, my wolf figured it out,"

"Oh," Stiles thought this over for a moment, "What if a mate dies? Do the gods pick out another one for the mate that was left behind?"

"No," Derek said harshly, "There's only one," his voice softened on this.

Stiles could only manage a breathy "oh" before looking down at his saddle horn.

Night fell on the traveling duo faster than anticipated. The stopped near a river so the horses could be watered. They ate a meal of meat, cheese, and bread that Derek had packed before they had left Animas. Stiles let the sound of the fire cracking settle in to his bones. The night was turning cold and he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulder. He leaned back against the log that created an edge to their campsite and pulled his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and locked them in place by grabbing his wrists. Stiles stared in to the flames and let his mind wander aimlessly.

After a while, Derek sat down beside Stiles. He was in his human form now, but had just done a perimeter check as his wolf. Stiles looked next to him at Derek's lounging form. The fire cast light across his face in strange shadows. The panes of his face were painted in the orange light and sharp angles created his features. Derek really was quite handsome. Stiles felt his cheeks turn pink. Derek's nostrils flared and he turned to look at Stiles. Derek's eyebrows rose and his lips quirked up in a knowing smirk. If his face wasn't hot before, Stiles was certain it was now. He looked away and back in to the fire.

"When I was a little boy," Stiles began, "I was kidnapped from the market place. I don't really remember what happened. But I know that there was a little boy in there with me who had also been kidnapped," Stiles chuckled to himself, "At first I thought he was a mage because his eyes glowed blue in the night. He tended to the wounds that I had and took care of me before my father rescued us both. That boy," Stiles whispered, "That was you, wasn't it?" He asked as he flicked his eyes up to look at Derek.

Derek made no motion to answer him. But his eyes shone in the firelight with slight apprehension. After a moment, Derek nodded slightly.

Stiles smiled, "You saved me back then,"

"I didn't do much," Derek whispered, "I was a shitty brat back then," his breath was hot against Stiles' face. When had they drifted so close? Not that Stiles minded—he was fully aware that he had plenty of misplaced hormones. Stiles swallowed hard and looked up at Derek's eyes. Derek's stare was intense and caused a shiver to course through Stiles' body.

Stiles moved first, gently pressing his lips to Derek's. There were three or four light, chaste kisses shared between them before Stiles uncurled his body and turned towards Derek. Their lips met with more purpose this time. Heat spread across Stiles' skin that was completely different than the heat of the fire. They continued to kiss for a few minutes. Derek's hand had snaked its way behind Stiles' head and in to the short brown hair. Stiles was in Derek's lap, pressing his body as close to him as he could. Derek pulled away suddenly with a shaky inhale.

"Stiles," he growled, "We need to stop,"

Stiles blinked open glazed over eyes, "Wha—why?"

"It's still too close to the full moon. I can't completely," Derek looked Stiles straight in the eyes, "Not with my mate,"

Stiles felt the small pinpoints of claws on the back of his head.

"Oh," he whispered, "Right," he then climbed backwards off of Derek. Derek took another breath and grudgingly untangled himself from Stiles. Derek's fingers lingered on Stiles' swollen lips. But he pulled them away eventually and the extended claws glinted in the light from the fire.

Stiles frowned, "This is really fucked up, yeah? This whole Shifter-mated-to-human thing?"

"Yeah," Derek mumbled, "Yeah it is,"

Derek and Stiles curled up on their bedrolls. They were lying next to each other and near the fire. Derek had just put fresh kindling on it and stoked it back to life. It was all right, but Stiles was still pretty cold. He ended up scooting closer to Derek, resting his head on the other male's chest.

"Just so you know," Stiles muttered, sleep quickly taking over his body, "I'm not 100% okay with this entire thing,"

"I don't expect you to be," Derek replied, the words sending vibrations through his chest and straight in to Stiles' ear.

"Good. I really don't get the whole mates thing just yet," he yawned.

"Are you saying you only want me for my roguish good looks?"

"It's definitely not because of your conversational or people skills," Stiles grumbled.

A small chuckle shook Derek's chest. He wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulders and pulled him closer in to his body heat.

"Just go to sleep Stiles," he whispered. Stiles only answered with a grumble before settling in to sleep. Derek closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Stiles' scent flowed over him like a ray of soft, morning sunlight. It warmed him and left a sense of calm in its wake. But even with the comfort of Stiles in his arm, Derek couldn't help but feel like they were being watched.

Morning came as it always does. Derek and Stiles put away their bedrolls, put out the fire, and began to travel once more. They weren't in as much of a rush as when they had been going to Animas, so their progress was much slower. Stiles was riding his gelding, which he had affectionately named Gonad, while Derek was leading his mount on foot.

"So," Stiles said, chewing on a piece of jerky, "Let me get this straight. Humans can be turned in to Shifters by the bite of a beta,"

"Alpha," Derek corrected him, "It has to be an alpha to actually turn a human,"

"So Isaac, Erica, and Boyd were all human?"

"Yes,"

"And you turned them,"

"Yes,"

"So they're alphas?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, "No. Stiles emI'm/em the alpha. Those three are my betas,"

"Okay okay okay," Stiles flailed his arms uselessly. Gonad huffed and adjusted for the sudden movement. Stiles reached down and patted the thick neck of the mount to quiet him.

"Why did you give them the bite?"

"They each have their own reasons," Derek answered.

"Which are?"

Derek craned his neck to look behind him at Stiles, "You'll just have to ask them yourself,"

"God dammit," Stiles grumbled, looking none too pleased, "Mysterious, overly attractive, little shit,"

Derek's lips stretched in to an impossibly adorable smile, showing brilliant white teeth. Stiles swallowed and gave him a closed lip smile in return. Maybe they didn't have to deal with the whole mates thing just yet. Being friends seemed like a good starting point.

Derek's face fell and he looked away from Stiles. The horses both stopped and their ears twitched, standing straight up and angling towards the left. Derek was looking in the same direction as the horses were listening.

"Shit," he growled. His eyes flashed red for a second and his lips rose in a sneer. A warning growl sounded low in his throat, rumbling out from his chest.

Stiles frowned, "Derek what—" he was cut off by an answering growl from the edge of the forest. Stiles turned his head slowly in the direction of the sound. His blood ran cold and he felt his heart beat pick up.

From between the trees emerged a large, black wolf. It was impossibly huge and Stiles realized that it was no natural wolf. Its eyes were a wild, blue colour. Drool dripped from its jowls as it snarled and growled at Derek.

"Derek is that a—" But before Stiles could get the words out of his mouth, Derek was leaping forward. His form changed midair, leaving his clothes behind. The black wolf leapt as well, meeting Derek in the air where their bodies crashed together with a bone jarring crunch. The canines snarled and growled as they rolled on the ground. The both fought for the dominance in the fight. Derek had the other wolf pinned, his grey form smaller but more powerful than the black wolf. Even though it was outmatched, the black wolf still snapped at Derek's throat in a crazed frenzy.

It had to be a rogue wolf. What had Derek called it? An omega? Derek said that when a werewolf lost its pack or decided to leave, it dropped to the rank of omega. But without a pack, an omega didn't usually survive for too long. They were either hunted by humans, or they lost their humanity without the stability of a pack. Derek didn't mention which outcome was more common.

With a burst of strength, the black wolf threw Derek from it. Derek landed on his feet, his hackles having risen. He barked angrily at the black wolf. But the wolf just stood and shook itself out. It then charged at Derek once more. They bit and clawed at each other, rolling and tackling. After breaking apart from one skirmish, they growled lowly at each other. There were a few spots of matted blood in Derek's dark grey fur, but he seemed to be fine. The same could not be said for the black wolf. He was favoring his front right paw and one of his eyes was swollen shut. He had blood on his muzzle but more of it was in places that he had been hit by Derek's attacks. But this wolf was crazed—he didn't know when he was beat. So he lunged forward once more to which Derek responded in turn.

"Your highness!" Yelled a voice. Before Stiles could react, the twang of a released bowstring filled the air. There was the high pitched squeal of an injured animal shortly after. Stiles looked up and felt his blood run cold. An arrow was lodged deeply in to Derek's front left shoulder. He lay on the forest ground, whimpers coming from him.

"Derek!" Stiles yelled, dismounting quickly. The commotion had caused the black wolf to flee. Before Stiles could make it to Derek's side, a horse thundered in his path. Stiles looked up and squinted in to the sun to see who it was.

"Sir Argent?" He whispered. The next thing he knew he was being lifted from the ground and thrown roughly on the rear of the horse.

"Hah!" Sir Chris Argent yelled as he kicked his horse in to action. The horse sprang in to action, running swiftly from the area.

"No! Wait! We have to go back!" Stiles pleaded, "Sir Argent!"

"It's too dangerous out here, Prince!" Sir Argent said over the sound of horse hooves.

"No! Derek! Derek!" Stiles yelled to the quickly passing forest, his voice being swallowed by the many trees.

"You called for me, your majesty?" Sir Argent asked, bowing his head respectfully towards the king.

The king smiled tiredly at the man, "Please, Chris, we've been friends since we were in swaddling clothes. I can't stand it when you're so formal,"

"I suppose," Chris chuckled, "What is it that you wished to speak with me about, John?"

"It's Stiles," John sighed, "Ever since his return, he's not quite the same."

"Well, traveling to neighboring kingdoms can take its toll on anyone,"

John shook his head, "That's not it. He doesn't sleep much and when he does he awakes in the middle of the night screaming. I can hear him all the way in my chambers. The maids are beginning to talk of bewitchments,"

"John," Chris said, placing his hand on the man's shoulder, "I can assure you that witches haven't been around since the Sunless Day,"

"Right, you're right. It's just,"

"You're worried about him," Chris said, "As you have every right to be, you are the boy's father,"

"Do you think something happened while he was away? Other than the bandits?"

Chris shrugged, "It's hard to say. But I wouldn't be surprised if the nightmares he's having have something to do with his trip,"

"Do you think," John paused, "Do you think it would be for the best if he didn't," he shook his head.

"If he didn't remember?" Chris supplied.

John looked pale as he nodded.

"Perhaps," Chris whispered, his tone gentle yet firm.

After a moment, John sucked in a deep breath. He nodded once, then once more.

"Call for the mage," he said, his voice not nearly as steady as he hoped it would be.

Stiles sighed as he closed his eyes. The day had been long and draining. Sir Argent had really taken it out of his hide in practice today. Stiles couldn't help it—he wasn't sleeping well. The past few months he had been having a reoccurring dream. In this dream he was on great adventures in different places with someone. But he could never remember who the person was or what they looked like when he woke up. It was so frustrating because the dreams felt so emreal/em. Stiles shook his head once to clear it and willed himself to sleep.

He felt the bed sink as someone climbed on it.

"Hn?" Stiles grumbled, "Who's there?" He felt hands travel up the sides of his body. They massaged at his sore muscles and left paths of heat across his skin. Stiles groaned slightly as he felt the hands dip under his sleeping tunic. They traveled feather light up his chest, taking the shirt up and off of Stiles' body. Soon, hot and rough lips were pressing to Stiles' stomach and traveling up his chest. They mouthed at Stiles' collarbone.

Stiles moaned and tilted his head back to allow more of his skin to show. The lips continued upward, biting and sucking and licking at the skin of Stiles' throat and jaw. The lips pressed kisses and bites along Stiles' jaw before finally landing on Stiles' lips. Stiles gasped in to the lips which quickly—greedily—ate up all of Stiles' sounds. They kissed Stiles' breathless, leaving him panting and hot all over. Stiles pushed his hands up and in to the person's hair. Their stubble left burns on Stiles' more delicate skin. Their hair was soft and Stiles twisted his fingers in it to get a good purchase. The lips pulled away and Stiles whined at the sudden loss.

"Come back," he murmured, his lips wet and swollen. Stiles opened his eyes and saw green eyes staring back at him. He opened his mouth to call out when the person vanished as if blown away by the wind.

Stiles gasped and opened his eyes. Cold sweat was all over his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that filled his entire body. He still felt the phantom touches of the person from his dream. But who had that been? Why were they so familiar? Stiles wanted to yell—wanted to scream. He felt tears prickle at his eyes. They spilled over as a physical manifestation of all his frustration. A name sat on the edge of his tongue, but he couldn't remember it. His face scrunched up in agony and he let it all out. Tears streamed down his face as he yelled in to the empty darkness of his room. He yelled until his throat was hoarse and his eyes burned from having no more tears to produce. Yet still, he couldn't get the name out of his throat or the naggingly familiar smell of damp earth out of his nose.

A few months passed and the leaves were beginning to change colours as a prelude to the oncoming fall. Lady Lydia and her parents had come to stay for the winter months. It was a trip they made yearly. Lydia's mother had been friends with Stiles' mother when she was still alive. So it was a tradition that stayed, even after the passing of the Queen.

Stiles and Lydia were sitting in the library. Stiles was looking over a book on etiquette when dealing with people from the Eastern Continent. Lydia was reading something that was much more complicated than Stiles could ever comprehend. Lydia was scary intelligent. When they had been kids, Stiles had been convinced that Lydia would rule the world someday. He wasn't entirely convinced otherwise even now.

Lydia sighed dramatically and closed her book to look pointedly at Stiles, "All right, who is it?"

Stiles blinked and looked up at her, "Who is who?"

"Who's the girl you like?" She asked.

Stiles merely blinked at her again, "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play pauper with me, Stiles," she rolled her eyes, "You haven't tried to court me even once since we arrived. So obviously you've moved on. I want to know who can replace me in your heart,"

"Oh," Stiles whispered. That was true now that he thought about it. Normally he would be on Lydia's heels trying to please her in any way that he could. But he hadn't felt that overwhelming need to please her this time.

He shrugged, "I don't know. I guess maybe I just got tired of being ignored by someone who is obviously way too pretty for me,"

Lydia flicked her perfect strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, "Flattering—but also evasion. There has to be someone,"

"Well," Stiles frowned and chewed on his bottom lip, "No, never mind."

"Stiles!" Lydia hissed in exasperation.

"No, it's nothing," He paused, "I mean, I've been having these dreams lately. But I can't ever remember who is in them once I wake up. But I think I might—"

"—love them?" Lydia supplied with a triumphant smirk.

Again he shrugged, "I don't know. They're just dreams,"

"Hmph," Lydia's lips tightened in to a pursed line, "Fine then. Don't tell me, I'll find out sooner or later,"

"Lydia," Stiles groaned, "I'm too hungry for this right now,"

"Fine," Lydia sighed, "Let's go get something to eat," She rose from her position with the perfect grace of a lady.

They were chatting idly on their way to the kitchen when a commotion erupted around them.

"It's Sir Argent!" whispered one of the maids.

"He's returned!" said another.

"There was someone with him," the maids continued their gossip as the disappeared. Stiles and Lydia looked at each other before changing their course towards the throne room. Something interesting was happening and neither of them was going to miss it.

When they arrived in the throne room, Stiles moved to stand beside his father at the front of the room. Lydia went to stand next to her parents on the right side of the room. Chris Argent came entered not but moments later. He strode in, his traveling cloak swishing behind him as he moved. He knelt before the prince and king.

"You highnesses, we have apprehended a suspect in the recent murders in the forest between our kingdom and Animas," Chris reported in an authoritative voice.

King Stilinski nodded, "Very good. Bring him forward,"

Sir Argent rose from his place and motioned for the guards at the door. One of them nodded and hurried out. A few seconds passed before two men from the Royal Guard began to drag someone inside. They hauled him all the way up the middle of the throne room. They then pushed him to his knees in front of the king.

The suspect was in ragged clothing. His clothes were torn and blood and dirt were all over. Stiles frowned. If this person really had been responsible for all the deaths in the forest, he was a bad person. But Stiles didn't think that it was necessary to be so rough with the man. He more than likely had a reason for his deeds—hopefully. Their hair was a dark brown, nearly black. But it looked surprisingly soft for how dirty the man was. Even with his head bowed, Stiles could make out the makings of a beard.

One of the guards prodded him harshly, meaning for him to raise his head to address the king. Slowly, the man looked up. Stiles felt his stomach clench painfully and his blood run cold.

"Derek," he whispered before he felt his world tilt and his vision went black.


	9. Chapter 9

Little Red Prince

Stiles gasped for breath, stretching his lungs to the brim as he flung his eyes open. He panted heavily, his chest moving quickly as he tried to get as much air as he possibly could. His head felt like it was splitting open and his eyes burned as if he had been crying. He responded just in time to sit up so that he could empty his stomach on the floor next to the bed. He retched until all the acrid bile had been purged from his body. Now he was shaking and a cold sweat broke across his forehead. A hand placed on Stiles shoulder and he whipped around to see who it was.

"Woah man," said a boy Stiles age, "Calm down. It's me—it's Scott,"

"Scott," Stiles breathed. His voice was scratchy and his throat hurt. Had he been screaming?

"Man, I can say that you're a sight for sore eyes," Scott mumbled. He grinned crookedly at Stiles, "I leave on an errand for Deaton and this is what I come back to?"

"I thought we agreed that you were the glue that held this place together," Stiles joked. He returned Scott's smile and clapped their hands together. They came together for a semi-hug and back pat.

"But Stiles, my brother, you look absolutely wrecked," Scott sighed as he sat down. He grabbed a rag from a bowl next to Stiles' bed. He squeezed out the excess water and dabbed the rag along Stiles' forehead. The coolness made Stiles let out a breath and he relaxed in to the bed once more.

"When did you get back?" Stiles asked softly, reveling in the coolness from the rag.

"Two days ago,"

Stiles looked at Scott, his eyes wide, "Two days—how long have I been sleeping?"

"Mom says that you passed out on the Day of Thorns," Scott frowned slightly, "It's now the Day of Dew,"

"Five days," Stiles whispered, "I've been out for five whole days?" Scott only nodded.

"Mom and I have been taking care of you,"

"What about the stables?"

Scott waved a dismissive hand, "Deaton said he could handle the horses himself—he'd been doing it for a long time before I ever got there,"

"Well, I appreciate it," Stiles began, "But could you tell Melissa that next time I would prefer my nursemaid to have a little more chest?"

Scott punched Stiles on the shoulder which caused Stiles to laugh. Scott and Stiles had been friends since they were born. Scott's mom was actually the midwife for Stiles' birth. She had been pregnant at the time with Scott. Stiles' dad always remembers it as more of a comical sight—seeing a pregnant woman yelling at another pregnant woman who was yelling back just as much. Stiles and Scott grew up together. Scott's mom, Melissa McCall, was the Royal Physician. So Scott was able to get a job as a stable hand in the palace. The two boys were inseparable. When Stiles wasn't in his classes or training, and Scott wasn't tending to the horses, they were running around causing an absolute ruckus.

"You really had us worried there for a while, Stiles," Scott said softly. If he was a dog, Stiles thought, Scott would be looking down with his ears turned backwards. Stiles blinked—where did that thought come from?

"What happened?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged, "I don't really know. One second I'm in the throne room," Stiles frowned, his eyebrows coming together, "Then Sir Argent brought in a suspect for the recent killings,"

A ringing was beginning in Stiles ears. His frown deepened. The man had set something off inside of Stiles. He felt his stomach clench. Why was his body reacting this way? He tried to see the man in his head. Short, impossibly messy hair that swooped characteristically as if he had just woken up and not bothered to style it. A chiseled jaw covered in a permanent shadow of stubble. Surprisingly expressive eyebrows. Lips that could pull back in to a brilliant smile to melt anyone's heart. Brilliant, piercing green eyes.

"Ah," Stiles gasped. His eyes widened as the ringing increased and became a siren in his head. He pressed his palms to his ears.

"No, no, no, no," he whimpered. His vision swam and he felt like he was going to be sick again. He doubled over, pushing his hands against his head.

"Stiles?" Scott called, sounding far away, "Stiles what's wrong?"

"No, no, make it stop, make it stop!" Stiles yelled. His words broke down in to screams of agony as the pain in his head became all that he could feel in his body. He didn't even notice when Scott ran from the room, yelling for his mother. The pain became unbearable and Stiles passed out from it. A word—a name—rested behind his eyelids. It played over and over in his head as he sank in to the darkness.

emDerek/em

When Derek opened his eyes, he was finally able to convince himself that things were messed up. For the past two months he had told himself to get over Stiles. It would never happen in the first place—no matter how accepting of Derek's blood Stiles was. It was a cruel and vicious trick that the gods had played by putting him together with his mate not once but emtwice/em. Now here he was again, merely a few floors of stone between him and his mate. The second that the Royal Guard had brought him within the borders of Beacon Kingdom, Derek could hear Stiles' heartbeat. He had shivered and earned a swift kick to his ribs for it. His wolf stirred crazily inside of him wanting only to be close to Stiles—to smell his scent.

But that was the thing—the entire kingdom was heavy with Stiles' scent. It clung lazily to the air and covered every inch of the place. Stiles must have done patrols regularly now that he had debuted as the Crown Prince. It drove Derek crazy just thinking that he was so close to Stiles and yet still so far from him. For weeks Derek's cottage had smelled of Stiles. He had returned, his shoulder still healing, to find that Stiles had not returned to the cottage. He made a mess of the cottage when he went on a small rampage. His mate had been stolen from him and there was nothing he could do about it. It was like Stiles' scent lingered as a sort of reminder of Derek's failure.

Derek burned his bed sheets.

Now here he was, chained up to a wall in Stiles' basement. Well, dungeon—not basement. This place didn't smell as strongly of Stiles as the other places in the kingdom had. The scent still drifted down to the dank prison every now and then, but it was muddled by the musk in the air. It was like dripping water in to the mouth of a man stuck in the desert. He would want more—need it to survive—and know that it was there but he couldn't get it of his own volition.

Derek groaned in the back of his throat and let his head fall back to rest against the wall. He had been ready for the scent, but it still hit him like running in to a brick wall when they entered the throne room. Everything that was Stiles flooded back to him—his scent, his warmth, the feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth. Derek's wolf whined low and chewed at him in his bloodstream. He kept playing the scene in the throne room over and over in his head. He could smell Stiles' curiosity. But it was strange; the emotions that Stiles was emitting were not the ones that Derek had expected. Stiles smelled of curiosity, a hint of fear, but most of all he lacked the smell of emrecognition/em. It hadn't been that long—only a few months. Could Stiles really have forgotten Derek in such a short amount of time? Had their—had their time together been so meaningless to Stiles?

So Derek looked up to face Stiles and the king. Derek looked straight at Stiles. He was afraid of what he would see in the boy's honey eyes or rather what he wouldn't see. But when Derek found Stiles' gaze, the air turned sharp and acidic with pain. Derek's nostrils flared and his eyes widened as he watched all the color drain from Stiles' face.

"Derek," Stiles whispered—although he might as well have yelled it with how tuned to Stiles all of Derek's senses were. Then Stiles' eyes rolled in to the back of his head and his body fell forward as he passed out. Derek moved on instinct to jump up and catch him before he hit the ground. He crossed the distance just in time to slide under him and cushion him with his body. His wrists had been bound behind him in rope braided with a weak strain of wolfs bane. The sudden movement coupled with the fainting of the Prince had everyone frozen for a moment, which was how Derek was able to move away from the Royal Guard standing near him.

"Stiles!" Derek hissed. His eyes frantically searched Stiles' face, but he was out cold. Then suddenly as if a spell was broken, the throne room was thrown in to a flurry of action.

"Call for the Physician! Get Melissa here now!" King Stilinski bellowed, "Guards! What are you doing? Get him away from my son!"

The next thing he knew, Derek was being pulled away from Stiles.

"No! Let me go!" Derek roared, his eyes flashing red. He hissed as the binds at his wrist burned his skin, reacting to the release of his wolf. Derek looked up to see the king cradling Stiles in his arms, trying to rouse his son. But Derek was quickly being pulled out of the room. He fought against the guards, but they were strong and any use of supernatural strength caused the ropes to burn him. Melissa, the physician, was there and checking Stiles' vitals just as Derek was removed from the area. When the doors shut, Derek let all of his frustrations boil out in a yell that was as close to a howl as he could get when he was a human.

So here he was now, strung up like some Christmas ham. Chris Argent had interrogated him the first couple of days. The questions were mainly about the recent killings in the forest—which Derek was in no way involved in, thank you very much. He told Sir Argent about the omega that Derek had been tracking when his guard captured him on account of "suspicious behavior." He left out the part where they decided that he was "resisting arrest" and used "necessary roughness" with him. Who would have thought that punching the ever loving shit out of a person was necessary? Not that Derek was too terribly bitter about it—it hurt like a bitch at the time, but healed all the same.

Sir Argent had taken Derek's word about the omega. But just to be on the safe side, he kept Derek in captivity. Which, Derek didn't blame him for either. It was probably difficult enough to trust Derek about the omega when one hadn't been around for years. So incase Derek was lying, Argent would know exactly where Derek was when the knight had further questions. Although, honestly? Derek wished they would have adjusted his accommodations accordingly to his willingness to cooperate. They didn't have to let him out—lining the cage with mountain ash would be sufficient. Slide the key inside and complete the line, then make Derek get himself out of his shackles. Of course Derek was never so lucky. He was stuck with his arms in the air and staring at the bars of his cell. All the while, he could hear Stiles' steady heartbeat. Derek sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. He let the sound wash over him and bring him a small semblance of calm.

Derek must have fallen asleep. When he opened his eyes again he blinked away the blurriness at the edges. His body felt so relaxed—a feeling that had eluded him the past few months. He inhaled deeply as he stretched as much of his muscles as he could from his imprisonment. The scent of fresh, spring rain filled his being and worked out more knots in his body than any physician could. The scent was surprisingly strong and Derek's brow furrowed in slight confusion. Had Stiles walked nearby the dungeon entrance?

Derek focused his sights in the low torchlight and froze. Standing in front of his cell was Stiles. Derek's wolf whined. Stiles looked terrible. He had lost weight since Derek had last seen him. The color of his skin was pale and sickly, as if he had just gotten over a fever. Sweat sprinkled the skin of Stiles' forehead, as if he was still fighting off the illness. But still—this person before him was Stiles, emhis/em Stiles.

"Stiles," Derek breathed. His voice came out as steam and Derek wondered idly how cold it was in the dungeons during the winter. His thoughts immediately came back to Stiles. He wasn't wearing much clothing, just a tunic and some breeches. He wore thin soled slippers. Was he warm enough? What if he caught a cold? Since when did Derek become a mother hen? Stiles pulled a key out of his pocket and slipped it in to the gate. The tumbler turning made a metallic thump in the empty dungeons and the door opened with a small groan of protest. Stiles left the key in the lock as he walked towards Derek. His eyes were determined, but Derek could smell the slightly sour scent of Stiles' apprehension. When Stiles was but an arm's length away, he stopped. He was nearly eye to eye with Derek. The boy searched Derek's face and Derek wondered what he was looking for.

Stiles throat bobbed as he prepared to speak, "Who are you?" he whispered.

It was at that point that Derek knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.


	10. Chapter 10

Little Red Prince

Derek felt his face fall.

"You don't," he paused, "remember me?"

Stiles frowned as he looked over Derek's face, "I don't even know you,"

"What?" Derek hissed. He pulled idly at the chains.

"That can't be true. Stiles this isn't a game—stop playing around,"

"I'm not playing! How do you know that name? Who are you?" Stiles' face became increasingly troubled as he spoke.

"So," Derek whispered with his heart in his stomach, "You really don't have any idea who I am?"

Stiles chewed on his bottom lip and then shook his head. Derek stared at Stiles for a minute. He felt something bubbling up inside him—hopelessness, desperation, an overwhelming sadness. Derek felt himself chuckle a few times before it turned in to a full-bodied sound. His shoulders shook as he laughed. What the hell was going on in this place? It was Hell disguised as Heaven. Here was Stiles, smelling of home and comfort, yet he had no idea who Derek was or just exactly what the boy meant to him.

Derek startled when he felt a gentle touch on his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw Stiles had reached out to rest his palm softly on Derek's cheek.

"You sound so sad," he murmured, his eyes staring in to Derek's. Derek sighed and tilted his face in to the touch, closing his eyes.

"I missed you," he admitted softly. The touch moved away and Derek leaned forward to try and chase it. He let his head fall forward when his skin didn't find Stiles. He opened his eyes and stared dully at the stone floor.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, "But I don't know who you are. Although you obviously know me," he mumbled.

"So you came down here to question me like a criminal?" Derek growled. God, his emotions were all over the place. He was worried, relieved, comforted, and now angry—and it all had to do with Stiles. Maybe a mate was more fuss than it was worth. No, even Derek couldn't convince himself of that. Even if Stiles didn't remember it, Derek did. He remembered how wonderful it had been when he was with Stiles. Being able to protect him and care for him when he was injured. How exhilarating sparring with him had been. The comfortable sound of Stiles' incessant chatter. The feel of his breath against Derek's neck while they slept. Stiles was every part Derek's equal—he was Derek's other half. Yet the Stiles standing before Derek now was a stranger.

Hn, who knew something like that could cause physical pain?

Stiles let a frustrated breath out of his nose.

"Look," he began, "I didn't want to take advantage of you like this, but I need_ answers,_" he looked up at Derek, his light eyes shining with desperation. He looked so lost.

Derek sighed—there was no way he could refuse his mate, refuse Stiles.

"What do you want to know?" He finally prompted.

Stiles blinked, "Really? You'll answer all of my questions?"

"As best I can," Derek nodded.

"Okay," Stiles breathed, "Okay," he said again with a nod of his head.

"Um, where should I start?" Stiles mumbled. Derek barely kept from groaning. This was going to be way too long if he had to stay in this position.

"One condition," Derek interrupted before Stiles could begin, "You let my arms loose,"

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.

Derek did groan this time, "You don't have to unchain me if you don't want. Just loosen the chains so I can lower my arms. I haven't been able to feel my hands for days now," he wiggled his fingers for emphasis. Stiles considered him for a moment. But then he pulled a second key from his pocket. He stepped closer still and reached up. His body leaned slightly in to Derek's and it was maddening. His scent made Derek dizzy. Stiles' tunic was open and left his neck and throat exposed. If Derek just leaned forward a little, he could place his lips against Stiles—taste his skin. Derek felt his gums tingling from want-he _needed_ to mark Stiles, claim him as his own. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing they were red. His wolf whimpered. Why wouldn't Derek trust his instincts and take Stiles?

The cuffs on Derek's wrists snapped open and suddenly all of his weight was on his feet. He stumbled slightly, but Stiles supported him with his hands.

"I have to put those back when I leave," Stiles mumbled. The man in front of him smelled like petrichor—the scent released by the earth after raining. It made Stiles light headed. A comfortable warmth pooled in his stomach. He realized with a start that the man was standing on his own and Stiles was now clinging to him.

Stiles cleared his throat and stepped back. He sat down on the floor and crossed his long legs underneath him.

"First of all," Stiles began, "What's your name?"

"My name is Derek du Loup of the Hale Clan," Derek replied as he sat on the floor in front of Stiles. He rubbed absently at his wrists.

Stiles froze but then swallowed, "Derek, okay," Stiles gained his confidence, "How do I know you?"

"You came to my property when you were being chased by bandits in the forest. They had shot you with an arrow and I tended to your wounds," Derek answered.

Stiles frowned, "I've never left the kingdom before on my own,"

"You were traveling to Animas to speak with the king about extending the market period," Derek supplemented.

"That can't be right," Stiles pressed his hand against his head.

"I helped my father with the planning on that, but we sent Allison Argent as our envoy,"

"Stiles," Derek said softly, "It was you who saw King Khufu. I was there with you when you did,"

"Dad told me Allison went," Stiles shook his head, "Scott went with her. That was just after he began courting her. I remember it!" He insisted, looking at Derek.

Derek looked back steadily, "Do you?"

Derek watched the resolve crumble in Stiles' eyes, "I-I think so," he whispered.

Derek didn't say anything. Stiles scrubbed at his face with his hands and groaned in frustration.

"Why can't I remember anything? Three whole weeks of my memories are fuzzy. Whenever I try to remember my head hurts and nothing makes sense!"

"Three weeks?" Derek asked. Stiles nodded and Derek continued, "That's how long you were with me. You were attacked on your second day of travel. You stayed with me for ten days while you healed. Then we traveled for two days to reach Animas. We spent two days there—through the full moon—before seeing Khufu on the third day. We then started to travel back for two days,"

"What about the last two days?" Stiles asked, "There's still two days left. And why didn't you come back with me to Beacon? You would have been exalted as a hero,"

"We were attacked," Derek growled, "And you were stolen away from me,"

"Wait," Stiles held up his hand, "You aren't making sense. We were attacked and I was stolen by the people who attacked us?"

Derek frowned, "We weren't attacked by people—it was a rogue Shifter,"

"You mean the men who can transform in to giant, fearsome beasts?" He laughed, "Derek, those are just bedtime stories mother tell to keep their children from misbehaving. They aren't real,"

Derek stared at Stiles with thoroughly unimpressed eyebrows.

"I mean," Stiles sputtered, "There's no way they can be real, right? You and I would both be dead if that were the case. Only an Argent or another Shifter can ever dream of beating a Shifter,"

Stiles' eyes widened and his face paled as he slowly looked back to Derek.

"Oh my god," he breathed, "You're one of them. You're a Shifter, aren't you?"

Derek simply nodded.

Stiles shook his head and scooted back a little.

"You aren't afraid of me," Derek said calmly.

"Are you kidding?" Stiles hissed, "I'm terrified of you!"

Derek's nostrils flared, "Doesn't smell like it," he paused, "Why did you undo my shackles when you could have just loosened the chains? Or found answers elsewhere?"

"Because you won't hurt me," Stiles said automatically. He blinked and looked surprised that he had said it in the first place.

"Exactly," Derek whispered, "I would never hurt you and somewhere inside, you remember that,"

Stiles stared at Derek for a long time.

"I have to get my memories back," he said softly. Derek nodded and stood. He walked to the wall where his shackles hung.

He looked over his shoulder at Stiles, "You should probably take the key,"

Stiles' brain caught up to him and he scrambled to his feet. Derek raised his arms and Stiles cuffed them once more. Derek made a small noise of discomfort.

"Sorry," Stiles murmured. He moved back but their faces were so close. Stiles felt his eyes flutter shut. There was that scent again. His body moved on its own and he was pressing forward in to Derek's heat. Derek growled and Stiles shivered. His body_ craved_ for more. He moved his head and they were kissing feverently. Stiles couldn't think past his feeling of extreme longing to touch and be touched by Derek. He wanted more, more, _more—_

Stiles gasped and pulled away quickly. What the hell was he doing? His face was flushed and his heart beat rapidly in his chest. Heat covered his skin and made his toes curl. What was happening? He needed his memories back before he freaked the fuck out.

Stiles turned and hurried from the cell. He closed the gate with a loud clang that he winced at. He pulled the key harshly from the keyhole.

"Don't go,"

Stiles froze at the bottom of the stairs. His heart thudded against his chest, causing his breathing to become labored. He slowly turned his head to look back. His heart cracked in his chest. Derek was staring at him, his green eyes swimming with emotions that Stiles could only begin to guess. Derek opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came. The unspoken plea sat heavily on his tongue. But no more words came from those lips. Derek looked away before closing his eyes and dropping his head. Stiles chewed on his bottom lip—now moist and beginning to swell. Then he turned and took the stairs two at a time.

"Deaton!" Stiles yelled as he entered the stables, "Deaton, I know you're here! Answer me!"

"Stiles," came the much too close reply, "You'll startle the horses,"

Stiles kept himself from jumping—no one saw that right? He turned and looked at the stable master. He was about the same age as Stiles' father, maybe a few years younger. He was from one of the Southern Continents—not that Stiles could remember which one. His skin carried his heritage and was the dark colour of the earth. The man looked more like a blacksmith than a stable master with his bald head. Deaton always said that the horses chomped on hair when they were feeling playful, so it was better to be without it.

"What brings you to my humble stables?" Deaton asked, waving his arm to encompass the building, "Scott isn't here right now. He's with—"

"—Allison. I know. I came to talk with you," Stiles said. He gave Deaton a determined look, "I know that you're an Emissary. I also know that Scott is learning more than just how to pick out mud from a horse's hoof,"

Deaton raised an eyebrow at Stiles and his face became guarded.

"What is it you wished to discuss?"

"Memories," Stiles took a deep breath, "I think someone has been tampering with my memories,"

"Stiles," Deaton shook his head, "The only person who could have that kind of power would be an archmage or a witch or something else entirely that hasn't existed for centuries,"

"An archmage like the mage here in the palace under my father's beck and call?" Stiles supplied. Deaton's mouth pursed in to a thin line.

"You should be careful what kind of assumptions you throw around, Stiles," Deaton warned in a low voice.

"I'm not assuming anything—well not condemning at least. Look, I know I don't have all the answers and I plan to get them as soon as I can, all right? It's just," he pushed a hand back in to his hair.

"There's someone that I think I'm supposed to remember and I just can't. There's blocks of my memory that are fuzzy or just completely missing. I was always told it was because I would be too rough during training or that I'd fallen off a horse yet again. But now, I'm thinking that isn't entirely the case. I_ need_ to get my memories back,"

Deaton frowned and remained silent.

"Deaton,_ please_," Stiles pleaded.

Deaton looked long and hard at Stiles for a while before nodded once.

"Memory is tricky," he began, "Even for those skilled in the magics. I'll help you retrieve your memories—all of them—but it isn't going to be easy or painless,"

Stiles remembered the aching headaches and the sudden fevers from when Derek first arrived. He remembered the sickness and the shaking.

He nodded, "I understand,"

Deaton sighed, "All right. Come this way then,"

Derek heard footsteps descending the stairs and he looked up, hoping Stiles had returned. He realized quickly that it was not Stiles who had come to visit him, but Kate Argent. Her imported perfume swallowed the remainder of Stiles' scent on the air and caused Derek to raise his lip in a sneer.

"Oh, don't look so excited to see me," She teased. She opened the cell door and sauntered in to the small square.

"You know," she began, "I had honestly thought I had burned all of the trash. Looks like I missed some,"

Derek curled his lips back and bared his teeth at her. He pulled at his restraints as he lunged for her, but the chains held fast with some enchantment to prevent breaking. She clicked her tongue at him like a mother would at her child when she was disappointed in him.

"Come now, Derek," Kate chided, "Is that any way to treat your ex?"

"I never loved you," Derek spat.

She smirked at him, "I don't need Shifter senses to know that's a lie,"

Derek flinched as if she had slapped him.

"You used me to get to my family," he growled, "You killed them—there were innocent humans in that house!"

"Hm," she contemplated this, putting a perfectly manicured finger to her slightly pouty lips, "Maybe you're right. But honestly, it's your word against mine. Who do you think my brother would believe?"

"You bitch!" Derek yelled, struggling against his restraints once again. He snarled and growled and snapped his teeth at her but she was just out of reach. He wanted to rip her apart and put the pieces of her body on display. The world needed to know the atrocities that this woman had committed against Derek and his family. His mother, his father, his aunts, uncles, cousins, his big sister, his _little_ sister—they were all dead because he couldn't keep his hormones in check.

Kate laughed, "You Hales are actually quite the resilient bunch. I was traveling some time ago when I ran across another one of you,"

Derek inhaled sharply and his eyes widened. He felt his blood run cold.

"What was her name—ah yes. I think she told me it was Cora,"

"Cora," Derek repeated. His little sister Cora.

"She really was a sweet girl. She just wanted to see her big brother again," Kate frowned, "It really was such a shame the accident she had,"

"No," Derek whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

"Poor thing," Kate shook her head, "Her head was chopped clean off," she made a motion with her fingers across her throat.

"No!" Derek roared, pulling with all of his might against the chain.

Kate stepped in front of Derek and grabbed his face roughly in her hands.

"Surely that had to be the last one," she smiled, a malevolent gleam in her eyes, "You're all alone in the world now Derek. No family, no pack, no _mate_," she hissed. Derek's face softened at the word and he immediately thought of Stiles. He schooled his features again, but not fast enough.

Interest flickered across her face. "Hm? What's this? Has the Big Bad Wolf actually found his mate in the world?"

He didn't say anything.

"What's she like?" Kate prodded, "Is she cute? What does she look like? Brown hair, honey gold eyes, skin peppered with moles, perhaps?"

Derek's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in disbelief.

A small chuckle left Kate's lips, "You're wondering how I know? Haven't you learned by now that I have eyes everywhere?"

Kate moved away from Derek. She took a few steps and sighed. She had her hands clasped behind her back. She looked over her shoulder back at Derek.

"You know," she mumbled, "The mate of something like you could only be a monster themselves,"

She sighed theatrically and shook her head, "It's a shame really. He would have made such a handsome king,"

"Kate don't," Derek said, "Don't you touch him!" The chains clanged and banged against the stone walls as Derek fought to be free. He could feel the cuffs biting in to his wrists but he didn't care. If Kate was as psychotic as Derek thought and he was understanding her correctly—

She was planning on killing Stiles.

Just because he was Derek's mate.

She flicked her perfect dirty blonde hair and left the cell. She kicked the door shut with a loud bang. Her riding boots clicked against the stone floor.

"Kate! Kate!" Derek yelled after her, "Damn it damn it!" He pulled and pulled at the chains until he wore himself out.

There was a knock on the antechamber to the throne room. King John Stilinski looked up from the papers he was going over.

"Come in," he called. He adjusted the pince-nez sitting on the bridge of his nose. The door swung open and Stiles walked in.

"Ah, Stiles! It's good to see you're well enough to be walking around," John said, a smile gracing his lips. But he frowned when he saw his son's stern face.

"Is something the matter?" He asked.

Stiles turned and gave his father a steady look, "We need to talk about something,"

John blinked, "Sure, of course, sit down," he motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk. Stiles sat down in it and took in a deep breath.

Stiles closed his eyes for a moment. How was he supposed to start this conversation?

"I know what you've been doing," he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on his father, "With my memories,"

John visibly swallowed, "I don't know what you mean,"

"Dad," Stiles scoffed, "You really didn't think I wouldn't start to notice the gaps in my memories? Sure, forgetting some things from your childhood is normal. But when you're ten, thirteen, and _nineteen_? I couldn't have fallen off that many horses, no matter how clumsy I am,"

John didn't say anything.

Stiles shook his head, "Three weeks, Dad. I was missing three very important weeks of my life! I fought bandits, convinced King Khufu to extend the market period, I saw a _play_ for the first time in my life. Did you not think there were things I wanted to remember from my trip?"

"Sure, but every night you would wake up screaming," John explained, "I didn't want to see you suffering anymore,"

"I wasn't—" Stiles let out a frustrated breath, "I was having nightmares. I was attacked by a rogue Shifter," he ignored his dad's widening eyes, "But I wasn't in any danger. The nightmares were more about something else,"

"How were you not in any danger if you were attacked by a rogue Shifter?"

Stiles sighed. That was all he got out of that sentence?

"I had a companion with me," Stiles mumbled.

"Who?" John asked skeptically.

"Derek Hale," Stiles replied, "The man currently being held in our dungeons,"

"Derek—? He's grown up since the last time I saw him," John mused quietly.

"Which was when?" Stiles interrupted, "When you rescued us from that shed when we were kidnapped?"

"Stiles," John said slowly, "We were afraid that experience would traumatize you,"

"Did it?" Stiles spat back quickly, "You wouldn't know because you never gave me the chance to figure it out for myself! Yeah, I was scared. But Derek _saved_ me back then. What did you do? Showed up with your sword brandished and then stole away my memories—some hero you were,"

"I just wanted you to be safe," John whispered.

"Safe? You wanted me to be safe?" Stiles felt his anger rising. The new memories were still fresh in his mind with the retrieval.

"You stole my last memories of Mom!" Stiles yelled. He could see her. He had been ten. His mother had been so pale and near death then. She had held on to Stiles' hand in her dry, bone thin fingers.

"Stiles, my precious baby boy," she had whispered, "Take care of your father for me, all right?"

Ten year-old Stiles had nodded quickly, gently squeezing his mother's hands in his, "I will, I promise."

She smiled softly at him, "Promise me you'll grow up to be a great, and just king?"

"I promise Mommy!"

A breath left her and she closed her eyes, "Mommy loves you so much, little prince,"

Stiles returned to the present with a shuddering breath. He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't care.

"That was the last time I ever saw her," he said shakily, "What right did you have to take that from me? Who were you to steal Mother from me!" Stiles yelled at his father.

John did not wince and his face did not change. He had a hard mask over his features.

"I'm your father, Stiles," he replied.

"No," Stiles hissed, "You're the king. The king who couldn't have a broken son,"

Stiles stood swiftly and slammed his hand on the desk top.

"When I'm king," he declared in a loud, steady voice, "I will outlaw any use of magic that tampers with a person's memory. I will be a better king than you _ever_ were,"

He leaned down and got right in his father's face, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Because that's what I promised Mother," he breathed.

Then he rose and turned, leaving the antechamber and closing the door with a rattling thud.

John stared at the door. He let out a breath and sat back in his chair. He held his face in his hands. He never should have tried to mold his son. Stiles was perfect the way he was—the son every father asked for. So why had John wanted to change him? People became who they were from the trials they faced in life. Had his fatherly love blinded him so much that he forgot that his son too needed to learn from the times he went through in life? How was he ever going to fix this?

Stiles felt his anger seeping from him as he made his way back down to the dungeons. He was going to let Derek go, give a piece of his mind to Sir Argent about prisoner accommodations, and then he was going to go back to Derek's. For how long, he didn't know. But he just knew he had to get out of there. Stiles would tell Scott that he was going away, but even he couldn't trust Scott to not tell Allison where he was. Stiles needed some time to himself. Besides, he missed Erica's banter and Boyd's cooking. Isaac would probably even be more tolerable now that Stiles knew the secret of the Shifters.

Not to mention he would be able to spend more time with Derek. Stiles couldn't help but to smile at this. He felt a light heat to the tips of his ears. The three weeks that he had been with Derek—how could he have ever forgotten those? They were the best time in his entire life. He was still super unsure about the mate thing. But, if it was with Derek, Stiles thought they could probably work something out. Stiles was pretty open about his attraction to both males and females. He didn't see anything wrong with it. People were people and they deserved love no matter what their gender was.

Stiles turned the corner to enter the corridor that had the door to the dungeons at the end. He fiddled idly with the keys in his pocket. He kept thinking about what he would say when he finally made it back to Derek. "Honey, I'm home," seemed strangely domestic. He settled on an "I missed you too." Because he had—that's what the nightmares originally were when he had returned to Beacon. Even without his memories, his body and mind still dreamed of Derek. Stiles just never had a name to put to the face.

Stiles passed by a column and he heard the tap of boots on stone floor. The next thing he knew, something struck him in the back of the head. He fell forward, his vision swimming. Black holes burned at the corners of his eyes. He felt his consciousness slipping away. The tapping continued and the last thing Stiles saw before he blacked out were leather riding boots.


End file.
